


Anomalies

by harpling



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Case Fic, Clueless Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, John Makes Deductions, M/M, Minor Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Russian Mafia, Sherlock Experiments on John, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock's Violin, Top John, Top Sherlock, bad music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:06:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 57,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpling/pseuds/harpling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies.  After all, noticing and cataloguing anomalies provided him with a large portion of the data he used in solving cases.  People lived their whole lives stuck in routines, always doing the same boring things at the same boring times, with the same boring reactions.  He often thought it must be witheringly dull, and he prided himself on refusing to fall into a routine.   As a result, he was rather slow to notice the pattern created by the anomalies in his own behaviour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is completely written, I'm just posting it in chapters to give myself one last chance to double-check for errors (I'm picky like that). There should be a new chapter every couple of days, if not faster. 
> 
> I am not British, and the closest I've ever come to England was a layover in Heathrow Airport. This fic has not been Brit-picked. If you see something (even little things) out of place, please let me know. 
> 
> Anything else, questions, complaints, comments, typos you've noticed, leave a comment. I love getting feedback!
> 
> Also, I love throwing in references to the original ACD stories. If you can spot them all, you get a cookie! (No, really. Send me your address, and I'll mail you cookies! I like baking ^_^)

“I see you’ve been busy. What’s all this, then?” It seemed every available surface of the sitting room was playing host to piles of printouts, even covering the floor in carbon-copied snowdrifts. They hadn’t been there when John left for work that morning.

Sherlock didn’t look up from his examination of bullet markings when he replied, “There is something off about these cases. Something that doesn’t fit. I’m trying to find the anomaly. The police have decided that there is nothing worth investigating and can’t be bothered. Don’t touch that.” Behind Sherlock’s back, John froze with his hand just outstretched to pick up the nearest manila folder. “No, I can’t read your mind. Your responses are tediously predictable. Tea?”

John shook off his bemused expression. He really should have been used to the way his flatmate’s mind worked by now. “Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

“No, I meant, ‘Did you bring home any tea?’ We’re all out.”

“How did we run out already? I just bought some last week.”

“I needed to test the effect of tannic acid on fingerprints left on bullets. I asked you to get more tea an hour ago.”

“I wasn’t here an hour ago. I was at work.”

“Well, that’s hardly my fault. I suppose that means you didn’t bring any tea with you?”

“No, Sherlock, I didn’t hear you, what with being all the way on the other side of town and all. Why didn’t you go and get it?”

“Busy.”

“Right. Of course. Wouldn’t want to interrupt all this…” he waved his hand vaguely to indicate the folders stacked on the chair, the coffee table, the sofa, the top of the telly. “I’ll go and get some groceries in a bit. I don’t suppose there’s anything in the fridge? Anything not likely to give Mrs Hudson a heart attack?”

Sherlock decided that this last comment didn’t really require an answer, so he went back to his scrutiny of crime scene photos. When John bent for a closer look at one of the photos (without touching), he didn’t pay any attention until the doctor murmured, “Didn’t think I’d see one of these again so soon.”

“You’ve got a pistol in your sock drawer. Why should seeing a gun be out of the ordinary?”

“No, it’s just these photographs here are of _Spetsnaz_ rifles. Saw plenty of them in Afghanistan, but they’re a bit less common in London.”

Sherlock paused, then turned to peer very carefully at the photos in question. “Afghanistan? Why were they so common in Afghanistan?” He felt the familiar thrill of excitement he always felt when things started to fall into place. His focus narrowed to encompass only the details of the weapons and John. Well, John’s answer, of course.

“Well, the Russians shipped them to the Afghanis back in the Eighties, when they were pretending not to be involved down there. Al-Qaeda just sort of took charge of the leftovers. These are a bit newer than the ones that were shooting at us, though. Bet they’re just as unpleasant…” He stopped, took a breath, blinked hard, and squared his shoulders. “Right. Shops, then. Anything besides tea that you want while I’m out?”

He left in such a hurry that Sherlock didn’t have a chance to reply. There would be nightmares tonight. There were always nightmares when John got The Look on his face while talking about the war. If Sherlock happened to play his violin while John was sleeping, the nightmares were markedly less disturbing, particularly if the music was Baroque. Sherlock’s random flourishes and attempts at composition invariably brought the doctor down, irritably, to request quiet while he was trying to sleep. 

It was one of those things that Sherlock couldn’t seem to help noticing and remembering about his flatmate. In the normal course of events, he would simply have deleted any extraneous information as soon as it became apparent that it would not contribute in any meaningful way to his work. However, his massive intellect was incapable of separating out the important from the unimportant bits of data as they pertained to the utterly ordinary man living in the bedroom upstairs. John liked sugar in his tea but not in his coffee. He was bothered by viscous human remains more than by desiccated remains. After talking to his sister, John’s posture remained rigid and tense for several hours, varying based upon the difficulty of the subjects discussed. Although not born ambidextrous, John had trained himself to use both hands with equal skill, probably during the course of medical school. The doctor’s hair smelled like his shampoo for approximately 6.2 hours after he had washed it. 

None of these things was in any way important, so why were they stuck in Sherlock’s memory still? It must be the proximity, he deduced. The constant exposure to one particular person was reminding him of every little nuance and oddity of his flatmate’s personality. Having thus come to a reasonable hypothesis that restored the logical order in his brain, Sherlock Holmes dismissed the question and returned to the photographs. 

John was brilliant. Well, not really, but he was brilliant at focusing the genius of others. Russian assault rifles. That was the part that hadn’t fit. Why would someone use a high-powered assault rifle in a situation where the inconvenience outweighed the benefit of extra firepower? Harder to conceal, more expensive, louder discharge noise, no need for rapid-fire shots or the long-range accuracy, not to mention the fact that there was no chance of pretending to have a permit if you were caught. Now that he saw it, Sherlock quickly identified all the other cases with anomalous weapons. Thirty eight. Interesting. Very interesting. 

He compared everything else in the files, but there were no other links. He thought about what that might mean for several hours, oblivious when John returned, made supper, wrote on his blog, watched telly, and eventually went up to sleep. He needed something to help him think. Sherlock had always found German music helped him think. It was introspective in a way that French and Russian music wasn’t. He pulled out his violin and played Bach and Telemann until the wee hours of the morning while he tried to figure out this newest puzzle.


	2. Chapter 2

John came downstairs two days later wearing just his trousers, hair still damp from the shower. 

“Sherlock, have you seen any of my laundry lying about? I think some of it must have fallen from the hamper when I carried it up last night. There aren’t any clean shirts in my room.” 

Sherlock had, in fact, seen the laundry lying about and was currently using said laundry to test the solvent power of several brands of cleaning powder on close-range gunpowder residue, but he said nothing. Shirtless and damp, John hunted for his clothes for a few minutes before giving up and retreating to his bedroom for alternatives. The sudden shortness of breath Sherlock felt was obviously caused by the fumes currently filling the kitchen from one of the stronger brands of cleaner. 

______________________________________________________________________________

“Really, John, your cologne is a bit much. Are you trying to make your patients even more ill?” Sherlock asked lazily from his sprawl on the sofa as John put on his jacket. With an entirely unwarranted sigh, John closed the zip before turning to answer.

“Not that my romantic life is any of your concern, but Sarah happens to like this scent. Your sudden concern for my patients is touching, but we don’t all have your bloodhound sense of smell. It’s not any stronger than what I normally wear to work.” 

“You’re not going to ask her out again, are you? That hasn’t worked the last seven times you’ve tried. Either she’s leading you on because she likes the flattery, or you’re utterly blind to whatever signs she’s sending that she’s not interested.”

“I’m the blind one, am I? Any idea what signs I’m giving you at the moment?” He made a very rude gesture with his free hand. 

“You’re angry because I’ve challenged your own perception of your ability to attract a mate. Boring. When she turns you down again, grab a take-away on your way home. I’m in the mood for Chinese today.”

______________________________________________________________________________

John shook his head and called out behind him as he left, “Go and get your own. I’m not your delivery boy. And don’t wait up for me. I may wind up spending the night at her place.” 

As Sherlock listened to the footsteps retreating down the stairs, he returned to his contemplation of the geographic spread of recent violent crimes. He was distracted, however, by a vague feeling of tension and discomfort in the duodenal region of his abdomen. Must be hunger, he thought. John will bring food when he returns. 

John did not bring food when he returned. He didn’t say anything on his way in, just took off his coat and went to shower. Sherlock could determine quite a bit about John’s day from his showering habits. When he heard the water running, his brain filtered through the data and arrived at the correct deductions automatically. _(Favouring his left leg: confrontation at work causing psychosomatic relapse; less than four minutes: return to military habits when stressed; no scented product: no date tonight; radio playing: attempt to reassure himself of normality.)_ John must have asked Sarah out again, and she had turned him down. Hardly surprising, considering her ridiculous aversion to anything interesting. He was better off without her, anyway. Sarah always got in the way of John’s more important activities, like assisting Sherlock with this case. 

When the water stopped, Sherlock got an earful of the terrible music John had been listening to while wet and naked and running soapy hands all over his body… _Where had that thought come from?_ It wasn’t like John was doing anything out of the ordinary, and Sherlock had never before wasted brainpower mentally corroborating tedious and mundane rituals. It must have been an unconscious effort to drown out the awful noise coming from the radio. 

Really, how could anyone call that enjoyable listening? The instruments were very poorly played, with far too much percussion for the balance of guitars. The vocal harmonisation was completely overblown. The lead singers’ voices were completely revolting. Even the lyrics were ridiculous, showing no discernible pattern of thought and a childish grasp of poetic principles. 

_With your light in my eye as the sun leaves the sky_  
 _I’ll be there with you_  
 _To the end of the rainbow and depths of the shadow_  
 _I would go for you_  
 _Through darkness ten times longer and a night that’s much stronger_  
 _I’d be there with you_  
 _Where the shadow might fall, pin my heart to the wall_  
 _I’ll be there with you_  
 _I’d swim a river, my queen, to bring honey and cream_  
 _All I have for you_  
 _From high to low, one two, or three_  
 _West to south we’ll be where birds fly free_  
 _I’ll be a dog for you (left and left, two by two)_  
 _Anything you want, I’ll do (right and right, two by two by two)_  
 _In the end, in the blue, I will be there with you_

Sherlock had never been more appreciative of quiet when John finally turned off the radio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured out how to do italics in html! Yay me! Many thanks to everyone who is reading! So many exclamation points!


	3. Chapter 3

That horrendous song John had been listening to in the shower had been lurking at the edge of his thoughts for days, refusing to shut up and be deleted like any other bit of useless data. Even now, as he and John walked through South Bank, on their way to talk to the owner of a shop that had been robbed three times by thugs carrying high-powered assault rifles, Sherlock could hear the absurd lyrics flitting through his mind. He stopped so suddenly that he felt John nearly run into him. Through the gaps in the buildings ahead of them, the Eye of London was just barely visible. Was it too much to hope for? Was there really someone brash enough to be sending instructions on the radio with no one else catching on? Oh, clever. “With your light in my eye as the sun leaves the sky… Darkness ten times longer… Left and left, two by two by two… John, what was the name of that terrible song you were listening to three days ago?” 

“I don’t know. I listen to lots of songs you think are terrible. Which one would this be, then?”

“It was on the radio while you were in the shower last Tuesday. Two singers, male, well past puberty but pretending not to be, badly played guitars, off-rhythm backup singers. What was the name?”

“Hang on. You listen to me in the shower?”

“Irrelevant. Who sang that song?”

“Damned if I know. Sounds like one of those boy bands running around everywhere. Do you always listen to me in the shower?”

“Useless. I need to find information about that song.”

“Well, don’t ask me. I just had it on for noise; I’m not some swooning fangirl.”

“Fangirl? Yes, of course. A group of young males singing together would appeal most to adolescent girls and young gay men. I need to find one of them!”

“Sherlock, stop! You can’t just grab some kid on the street and demand information; you’d be arrested as a predator. Look, there’s a record shop. You can ask the clerk all about them. Why the sudden fascination with boy bands, anyway?” This last question was asked to Sherlock’s back as he followed the detective’s sudden burst of speed across the street and down the corner.

As they walked into the store, they were greeted by a blast of determinedly hip sound from the in-store radio. The clerk _(expensive phone and low-wage job: still living with her well-off parents; piercings in nose and tongue but not eyebrows or lip: easily removable or hidden, attempt at hiding typical rebellion from her meal ticket; garish green polish applied neatly to nails on right hand but messily on the left: left-handed)_ barely looked up from texting when Sherlock approached the counter. He jammed his hands in his trouser pockets, slumped his shoulders, and assumed an expression of general resignation and ennui. John liked to tease him about looking so young – time to take advantage of it.

“Hullo. I wonder if you could help me.” He took a moment to let his eyes drift down to the girl’s bosom before jumping back to her face. Her smirk told him she’d seen the brief flicker. Good. “My mum’s sent me for a birthday gift for my niece. She’s turning 14, and she’s got terrible taste in music. There’s this one song she keeps singing, something about the sun in your eyes and walking two by two… Do you know it?”

She curled her lip a little in disdain. “God, yeah. Can’t hardly get away from that shite, can you? That’s ‘Equinox’ by Musgrave Five. Bunch of tossers singing the same stupid crap as all the other boy bands they’ve got out there. We’ve got their album on the second rack over there, just for the love of god don’t ask me to play it for you.”

There was indeed a large display of plastic cases featuring a group of deliberately casual young men smiling vacuously at the camera. ‘Equinox’ was the third track on the album, but Sherlock couldn’t see any more than the name because the entire thing was encased in a heavy plastic anti-shoplifting lock box. “There’s just one more thing, if you don’t mind. Her mum, my sister, she’s a bit stodgy about what her daughter listens to. God forbid the kid actually hear a swear, right? Is there any way I could take a look at the lyrics here before I buy it?” He gave the clerk his most charming smile, ducking his head a bit and shrugging his shoulders slightly. She responded to the act, standing up a bit straighter and thrusting out her chest just a bit. Too easy. 

“Yeah, alright. Give it here. Wouldn’t want the kiddlywinks corrupted, would we? But don’t tell the boss.” With a wink, she removed the packaging and opened the case for him. 

It took him a minute to find the song he was looking for, but there it was. It was brazen. It was brilliant. It was utterly, absurdly simple. Quickly, he memorized the relevant bit of the song, then tossed the booklet back on the counter. “John, what time is it? What time does the sun set today?” Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock turned in a swirl of coattails, leaving the shop girl stuttering about the abrupt transformation and the sale she thought she’d just lost. 

John caught up with him outside as he was flagging down a taxi. “What was that about? Why the sudden interest in pop music? The sun’ll be down in about half an hour, if you still want to know.”

“Close enough. How tall is the London Eye?” 

John shrugged blankly, but the driver of the cab that had just pulled to the curb replied, “135 metres tall, mate. Want me to take you there?”

“No. Take us to…” Sherlock paused, trying to do the sum in his head. _I’m 2 metres tall, and my shadow right now is approximately 2.3 metres long, so the shadow of the Eye right now would be about 175.5 metres, stretching East and North. ‘Depths of the shadow’ and ‘darkness ten times longer’ would make it 1755 metres in the same direction, which would lead us to…_ “Southwark. The junction of Southwark and Marshalsea,” he told the man as they climbed in. Before John had managed to close the door, Sherlock picked up right where he’d left off. “Whoever wrote that song was sending a message to someone. The chorus is a set of directions, hidden in plain sight. Who would think to look for hidden messages in such a terrible song? It’s perfect! We’ve got to find a heart, pinned to a wall. Somewhere, there’s got to be a heart…”

As Sherlock mentally wound his way through the map of London, John started laughing in the cab next to him. “Oh my god. That’s amazing, Sherlock. You don’t know anything about the solar system, but you memorize pop lyrics after hearing them once?” Sherlock’s glare only made him laugh harder. “They must have been pretty important if you didn’t delete them from your hard drive!”

“I attempted to. The inane drivel proved surprisingly resilient to my efforts to wipe it out.” 

This set John off again. “This is fantastic! Who knew, right? The Great Sherlock Holmes, a closet fanboy! All that brainpower, brought down by a catchy tune. Or was it the words that really spoke to your soul? Oh, I need to phone Lestrade. I think he needs to hear about this!”

“My inability to delete that particular bit of information was obviously caused by my subconscious recognizing the anomaly of the chorus not fitting the pattern created by the rest of the verses. That’s all.”

“You know all the verses too? This just gets better and better! Oi, give me back my mobile.”

“I need to send a text, let Lestrade know what we’ve found.” Sherlock didn’t add that he was also afraid John would carry through on his threat to phone Lestrade and laugh about him. Not that their opinion mattered, of course. The extra noise would just make it harder to think, to do The Work. That was all.

“Here! Stop here!” The cabbie obediently pulled off to the side at Sherlock’s sudden command. The side of the building directly ahead of them had been used as a canvas upon which an enterprising lover had proclaimed his affection for “B” on an enormous scale. The spray-painted heart was nearly two storeys tall. An equally enormous arrow ran through the centre, the shaft pointing vaguely north. _Swim across a river…_ “We need to cross the Southwark Bridge.” He ran through the next bit of the song, _High to low, one, two, or three…_ “High Thames Street to Low Thames Street, and then stay on the A1203.”

 _West to south_ must be a turn-off somewhere, probably wherever birds were flying free. Where did birds fly free? The Docklands Museum was in that direction, but he doubted there were any displays of birds there. They’d hardly be flying free if they were in a museum. Perhaps there was another bit of graffiti or a billboard they would pass.

John’s amusement was swiftly fading, and he now looked distinctly confused and well on the way to annoyed. “Sherlock, where the hell are we going?”

“Think, John. Use your brain,” he replied. “If someone wanted to give instructions to a lot of people coming from different directions, they’d have to have a starting point that everyone knows. The London Eye. Obviously, the shadow of the Eye will have moved somewhat since the Spring Equinox, which must have been when the meeting was scheduled. I adjusted for that, and the rest of the instructions since then have lined up. Now, look for birds. _Birds flying free.”_

There was quiet in the cab for a bit as both focused on finding something that could have been left as a sign. Finally, John pointed to a billboard beside the 1203 to 1206 exchange. “There! Could that be it?” It was an advertisement for a pleasure cruise. Seagulls suspended on rods seemed to flap above the picture of a sightseeing boat carrying tourists through pristine blue waters

“ _West to south we’ll be where birds fly free/ I’ll be a dog for you…_ That must be it.” Sherlock rapped on the window to the cabbie. “Take the Westferry Road south to the Isle of Dogs.” He smirked a bit to himself. These clues were insultingly simple to follow, once he’d got the starting point figured out. Whoever wrote them must not have been expecting much from the people following them. He’d have to look up the group and the writer when he figured out what he was looking for. But just at the moment… 

“Stop here,” he told the driver as they passed an enormous sign advertising The Musgrave Five’s upcoming concert. People had drawn adoring messages all around the singers’ faces, hearts and lip marks and the like. Between ‘I love you’ and ‘Honeypie’ was a green arrow, painted so that it was not pointed directly at any of the band members. Sherlock followed the direction of the arrow down toward a darker alley. _Left and left…_ He ran off in the direction indicated, leaving John to pay the fare. Which he did. 

It had to be streets at this point, no other measure really made sense. Two streets and turn left, another two streets and left again. Two streets and right, another two streets and right again. Two more streets brought them almost directly in front of a dilapidated warehouse. Warped and weathered boards covered broken windows, and the paint that had once identified the building as belonging to Charleston Indigo Imports, Ltd. was now peeling and faded so badly that it was illegible. _In the end, in the blue…_

If it hadn’t been for the fresh footprints in the mud by the heavily padlocked front door, the whole place would have looked abandoned. However, it was clear that at least seven people ( _five tall males and two short males or females_ ) had been in through that door within the last two days, when it had last rained. After a quick glance up and down the street, Sherlock pulled out his lock-picking kit and went to work on the padlock. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing? Call the police if you think there’s something in there. You can’t just break in like that.”

“Obviously, I can. I just did. I think you mean that I shouldn’t. And don’t call the police. Do you really want Anderson tramping all over the place, muddling any clues? Just be careful what you touch in here.” 

The interior of the building was very quiet and almost totally dark. The only illumination came from bits of fading sunlight that had snuck in around cracks between the boarded-over windows, washing the room in shadows that obscured more than they showed. After listening for seven minutes ( _longer than the vast majority of people could comfortably hold their breath_ ) and hearing no sounds of another person, Sherlock decided they must be alone. He pulled a small torch out of his pocket and shone it around, but the light only showed more clearly what he had nearly seen in the dark. Piles of half-dismantled shipping crates covered in a layer of dust, a trolley with a missing wheel standing abandoned in a corner, and a trail of footprints leading off to one side and then stopping. ( _Four sets with long strides and large prints: four very tall men, standing at least two metres; one set with long, uneven strides and large prints: one tall man with a recurrent injury to right ankle; one set with short strides and very narrow prints: female, no more than five and a half feet tall but very agile; one set with short strides that dragged just a bit at the toes, small prints, and a cane: female, infirm, elderly._ )

Upon closer inspection, it was clear that the tracks all led to and from a small doorway set into the side of a staircase. Next to where the door would open were marks of boxes having been laid in the dust before being moved, and the elderly woman had stood off to one side. She must have been the one directing the proceedings, most likely the loading and storing of some form of contraband. Considering the pattern that had started him on this line of inquiry, Sherlock was reasonably certain that the warehouse had been used as a storage facility for illegal firearms. 

The door itself was heavy and showed signs of having been used recently. Oil on the rusty hinges meant someone had wanted easier access to whatever was behind it. Well, that should mean that Sherlock and John would be able to open it without making much noise. Sherlock’s lock-picking skills came into play again to open the padlock over the handle. Slowly, he pushed it open and peered inside. From the air flow, he could tell the room was at least ten square metres and three or four metres high. With his torch held cautiously in front, Sherlock stepped inside and looked about. The weak beam from the torch showed racks of nearly empty shelves covering every wall of the space, stretching up to the ceiling. A few boxes gleamed dully in the light from the torch, some kind of dark metal. There was a wad of dingy, woollen cloth piled in the far corner, probably used for packing. 

“Stand watch out here, John. I’m going to have a look round.” Vaguely, he was aware of John muttering at the order, but the habit of following commands was fairly well entrenched. Sherlock pulled out his pocket magnifier and bent closer to look at the pattern of scuff marks on the bottom shelf ( _eight centimetres wide, heavy weight evenly distributed, traces of tin and green paint: metal crates stored here briefly and moved only once_ ). The shelves above showed similar marks made by lighter crates. 

A sudden breeze across the back of his neck was all the warning Sherlock got before a heavy fist collided with the side of his head. The shapeless bundle of cloth from the corner was now towering over him in the form of a very large, very angry man with a very big gun and a very fast fist moving to connect with Sherlock’s head again. He managed to move out of the way slightly, but the blow still knocked him back. 

_“Kto tei? Kak zhelanite?”_

Sherlock tried to remember the Russian he’d learned years ago, but the bolts of pain lancing through his brain were making everything quite difficult. He got as far as , “Uh, _mnya…za..._ ” before the world went very bright and a bit fuzzy for a moment. He was rudely jerked back into full consciousness. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, are you all right?” John’s hands gripped the side of Sherlock’s face as he peered into the detective’s eyes. The enormous Russian was currently on the floor, unconscious thanks to John’s judicious application of his own torch to the back of his head. The details of his assailant’s connection to the case flashed briefly though Sherlock’s mind, but all such details were temporarily drowned out by John’s hands waving in front of his face, John’s fingers feeling gently along his wrist for the pulse, John’s intense eyes focused on his own, John’s palms sliding along his torso checking for injuries, John’s face so close his breath stirred Sherlock’s hair, John’s parted lips a few bare centimetres from his own, John…

John snapped his fingers sharply. “Sherlock, come on, speak to me! How’s your head?” With a start, Sherlock’s logical mind reasserted itself, processing the data presented by the still form of his assailant. Tan lines ( _paler stripes on right wrist: left handed, lost his watch_ ), coat ( _Polish manufacture, originally of good quality but very old, slightly too short at the wrists: made for a very wealthy smaller person, stolen at least ten years ago_ ), weapon (very expensive handgun poorly maintained: supplied by a third party and infrequently used), shoes ( _tread worn more on the inside of the right heel: old ankle injury still giving him trouble_ ), tattoos ( _barely visible below shirt collar, faded blue ink: applied in prison at least twenty years ago_ ), gloves ( _made in Russia, newer than the rest of his garments, more worn on the palms than the fingertips: used to carry large, flat or square, heavy objects, not particularly thick – and it wasn’t very cold outside, so why was he wearing gloves at all?_ ). 

Rolling his eyes at John, Sherlock pulled out his filched phone and began furiously texting the relevant conclusions to Lestrade before replying, “Don’t be absurd. My head is perfectly fine. Signs of concussion are minimal. Lestrade and his team will be here momentarily, no doubt with a slew of meddlesome paramedics who will be more than happy to fuss and give me useless orange blankets. 

“Don’t you see, John? This means I was right! There is something much more interesting going on. Why else would an aging Russian criminal be hiding out in an abandoned warehouse that was recently used to store quantities of heavy artillery? This has Moriarty all over it. Hidden directions in bad music and overly dramatic firepower. It all fits him.” As he returned to the well-known world of data and deductions, Sherlock’s body returned to its normal functions. His earlier reaction to John had merely been a delayed response to the adrenaline unleashed within his system in response to immediate physical danger. And the head trauma. The head trauma had obviously made him confused, not thinking straight. The small voice in his head whispering that he had been perfectly capable of thinking rationally about everything else was quite thoroughly ignored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been years since I studied Russian, rather like Sherlock. My apologies for errors in the Russian. What the man in the warehouse asks, roughly, is "Who are you? What do you want?"
> 
> Also, I've never been to London, so I relied pretty heavily on Google maps and street view for this chapter. Please let me know if I got anything wrong in either!


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade called him down to the station the very next morning. After thoroughly telling him off for breaking and entering (Sherlock could clearly imagine John’s smug reaction to hearing his own warning repeated, but he was at the surgery and Sherlock had no intention of telling him about that bit), the DI handed over a sheaf of computer printouts. 

“Your new friend had a mobile on him when we searched him at the warehouse. Thought you might like to take a look at his recent texts. My lot’ve been at it all night and can’t make anything of them. They’re all in English, no worries about translating. See what you can do with them, will you?”

At first glance, the messages all seemed to be so much random nonsense. At second glance, they looked much the same. 

_Three travelling luggage cases holding bananas are ready or not to buy a big ship._

_Meet Godzilla and me for the game at once before the purple submarine can dock without erupting tonight._

“Codes are always fun. I hope it’s a tricky one. Why are they written in English? He spoke to me in Russian last night; he had Russian tattoos and shoes. Has he said anything more?”

“Not a word. The doctors say he’d got some other problems going on – blood sugar and dehydration and the like. He was pretty out of it even before John did that number on his head. Don’t know how much we’ll get out of him.”

“What was in those crates?”

“Nothing, completely empty. Some kind of oily residue on the bottoms, but nothing else. Anderson’s working on identifying it now.”

“Are you _trying_ to let criminals take over London? Anderson’ll botch it completely. Better give me a sample; I’ll tell you what it is.”

When he got home, Sherlock spread the oil sample and nonsense messages all over the coffee table, then stepped back to let everything percolate through his brain. He was still pacing around the flat when John got home from work several hours later and went up to change. It didn’t take John long to notice the quantities of paper spread over the table. 

“What are all these? Is this to do with the warehouse?” John leaned down to get a better look at the nonsensical phrases. 

“Messages sent to and from the mobile of the man you…” For some reason, Sherlock couldn’t seem to recall what he had been about to say. John was bending over and wearing the jeans that were slightly too snug, the ones that obviously were left over from before he shipped off to Afghanistan. Normally concealed bits of his anatomy were clearly defined by the worn fabric. Sherlock could feel his face flushing uncomfortably, probably because the room was distinctly warmer than usual. 

“I think I’d better speak to Mrs Hudson about the radiators in here. They’re out of sorts.” As he walked purposefully out to the landing (not retreating at all), Sherlock was struck by the acuteness of his own observations. After all, John’s wardrobe had no bearing whatsoever on weapons or nonsense codes or Russian gunmen, so why had he noticed the doctor’s trousers? It must be the heat in the flat; it was making his head behave strangely. Odd, though, that the temperature seemed to be back to normal now.


	5. Chapter 5

That very evening, Sherlock got a call from Lestrade. The unnamed Russian from the warehouse was finally lucid enough to be questioned by the police. Sherlock pelted out the door so quickly that he nearly left John behind again. Nearly. The doctor managed to catch up to him on the sidewalk just as he was climbing into the back of a cab. 

King’s University Hospital was very quiet this late at night. It was well past regular visiting hours, but John managed to bluff his way past the front desk by telling the night porter that he was a doctor here to see a patient brought in earlier. It was marvellous, really, the way he managed to tell nothing but the truth and still create completely the wrong impression. The uniforms posted outside the Russian’s secure hospital room were less easily impressed by medical credentials, but Lestrade heard their voices and sorted things. 

Most people look much smaller in hospital beds. The tubes and machines and sheer quantity of hygienic bed linen usually overshadow and diminish the actual patient. Not so with this man. He was so tall that his feet were hanging off the end of the bed, and his broad shoulders easily dwarfed the pillows behind his head. Below the IV drips and pulse monitors, his wrists were cuffed to the railings of the bed, but that didn’t seem to faze him. He treated Sherlock and John to an insolent glare as they entered the room.

“There was no trace of him in immigration or visa records. Fingerprints didn’t turn up anything. We put in a call to the Russians about him, but we won’t hear back from them for a couple of days yet. He hasn’t said a word of English, but Melas here tells me he hasn’t said much in Russian either.” Lestrade gestured to a very young, clearly nervous, uniformed officer standing as far in the corner away from the bed as he possibly could _(uniform still stiff and creased from the packaging, no easy stance developed by hours on the beat, repeated glances toward the prisoner’s handcuffs: brand new recruit, hasn’t been on the force more than a month)_. “He’s been nice enough to come and translate for us during this little chat. Worked as a guide for Russian tour groups before joining the Force.”

In the dim light and confusion of the room under the warehouse, Sherlock had missed several crucial bits of evidence, most notably the tattoos covering the patient’s arms and what was visible of his chest. Although faded, they were quite intricate and clearly done by a master. The swirl of religious icons, animals, Cyrillic lettering, and other symbols blended one into another in a mesmerising blue and red collage. As Sherlock bent closer to get a better look at a particular image of a skull inside a square on the patient’s left hand, he heard Melas introducing the new arrivals in Russian. 

“You’re wasting your breath,” he told the young officer. “He’s not going to say anything. The Vory aren’t known for being helpful to the police.”

By the looks on their faces, the announcement meant nothing to John and Melas. Lestrade, however, swore, quite eloquently. “Sherlock, you better not be taking the piss. What the bloody hell is the Russian mafia doing at the Docklands?”

“Obviously, Moriarty has ties to the Russian criminal element as well the British and Czech underworlds. I know your powers of observation are rudimentary under the best of circumstances, but surely even you noticed his tattoos.”

“Loads of people have tattoos-“

“Not this particular combination of tattoos,” Sherlock cut him off. “A man with these tattoos in Russia is either a Vory or suicidal.”

John spoke up from the foot of the bed, where he was examining the man’s medical chart. “Sorry, he’s what now?”

“The Russian mafia has very deliberate rules for their members. It started in the _gulags_ , with the _Vor v Zakone_ , the Thieves in Law. The code is not as strict these days, but they still refuse to cooperate with the authorities in any way, and they don’t take kindly to outsiders wearing Vory tattoos.”

“You mean, like, gang tattoos, that sort of thing?”

Completely ignoring the man attached to the designs, Sherlock lifted one hand as far as the cuffs would allow and gestured for John to come closer. “The cat on his forearm here identifies him as a Vory. These letters on the back of his hand mean that he has committed at least one murder. The skull on the finger here advertises his skill as a thief. The ink is the type commonly used in Russian prisons, specifically on the western edge of Siberia. They were applied over a period of several decades, as evidenced by the varying degree to which they have faded. Older tattoos were applied by someone with less skill than those applied later, so he moved up in the ranks but not very far.” 

As he was speaking, Sherlock leaned over to open the prisoner’s shirt, revealing a torso covered in still more tattoos. “There are fourteen spires on this church, so he’s spent at least fourteen years in prison. This Madonna and Child indicates that he began his involvement with the mafia at a very young age, probably before adolescence. Since he’s now nearer to sixty and doesn’t have the upside-down spider of a retired Vory, he’s still active in the organization, trying to climb the ranks. There are only two stars here, so he still holds a relatively low position, despite his years of service. That would indicate that he either has very little skill at what he does, unlikely since he’s still alive, or he has some other, inherent flaw that would make the Vory hierarchy less inclined to trust or promote him. 

“The bear on his abdomen means that he has some skill as a safecracker. Placed as it is with the head below the navel, the bear’s eyes are in the position to indicate homosexuality. The typical eye tattoo is very blatant, so whoever arranged for this particular mark was doing him a favour. This isn’t something he would’ve wanted broadcast. Since the Vory do not take kindly to homosexuals, that would be the most likely explanation for his lack of high rank despite his age and tenure. Someone with a much higher rank was looking out for him, most likely a father or uncle with a lot of influence but not enough to prevent him from being marked for what he is. Years of humiliation at the hands of his own organisation would have made him quite susceptible to whatever Moriarty offered him in exchange for relocating to England.”

Lestrade and Melas looked a little dazed, trying to keep up with the rapid flow of information. John, however, was relatively unfazed in doctor mode, testing the prisoner’s fingertips for circulation, checking the pulse, comparing what he saw to the notes in the medical chart. “Well, whatever he is, he’s got pretty severe dehydration and multiple head traumas. Someone’s been hitting him round the skull a lot recently, even before we came along.”

That was odd. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he joined John in staring at the Russian’s chart. “Anything else?”

“Well, his upper body is quite defined, so lots of lifting and moving about with his arms. Uh, x-rays show his knees are bowed and twisted – you only get joints like that if you’ve had rickets as a kid, so he must have had a deficient diet when he was growing up. Either his family had no money or he had no family. Erm, couple of broken and badly set fingers in the past couple of years and arthritis in his hands, so he’s probably not going to be picking any pockets or knocking over any safes for a while.”

“Another possible reason Moriarty’s offer was appealing. Rickets… could be interesting.” Sherlock turned his attention back to the big Russian’s face. He didn’t like what he saw there. The man was staring avidly at John, hungrily almost. That wasn’t right. Why was he looking at John like that, like he wanted to tear him to pieces and devour all the bits? No one should look at John like that. With a chilly glare, Sherlock shifted so that he was standing between the doctor and the prisoner, who just smiled and ran his tongue obscenely over his lower lip. “Come on, John. Let’s go find his clothes. He won’t say anything.”

As Sherlock started for the door, Melas stepped out of his corner tentatively. “Um, sir, excuse me, sorry sir. It’s just that, um…”

“What? Out with it.”

“Well, sir, it’s just that he did say something, sir. Earlier, I mean. He was a bit delirious. Didn’t make much sense, sir.”

“And why didn’t you mention this in the first place?”

“Sorry, sir. It was just, well, it was only a bit of nonsense, sir. He kept babbling about bees and pollen sir.” The raw police recruit wilted further under Sherlock’s focussed stare, if that was possible. He swallowed nervously and took a step back. 

“What, exactly, did he say, Officer Melas?”

“He kept saying, ‘Pollen for the Queen Bee,’ sir. _‘Piltsa koroleve pchelye.’_ Oh, and he mentioned honeybees, sir. _‘Pchelnovo meda.’_ Sir.”

Sherlock glared at him for another moment before turning his focus back to the man in the bed. The prisoner had gone back to staring at John. His greasy arrogance struck a nerve in Sherlock, making him rather impatient and short-tempered. Herding John before him, the detective swept out of the hospital room in a hurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't even have to make up the bits about the Vori's tattoo language. It's really cool, and there's more about it here: http://fuel-design.com/russian-criminal-tattoo-archive/  
> Again, sorry if I've mangled the Russian. 
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who has read or commented or kudos'd thus far. Lots more excitement to come!


	6. Chapter 6

Despite Lestrade’s pessimism, the Russian government responded with details about the prisoner the same day. Dmitri Karolinski had a string of convictions for minor offenses stretching back several decades, almost entirely related to theft. According to the DI, the Russian authorities weren’t even demanding Karolinski be extradited, which was nothing short of amazing. Sherlock suspected his brother’s meddlesome interference. 

Studying the recent activity around the warehouse where Karolinski had been found yielded no useful data. Ships from Sao Paolo, South Carolina, Singapore, Vladivostok, and Sydney had all arrived and left from nearby docks in the month prior to his discovery. After working fruitlessly on decoding the text messages for several days, Sherlock switched his attention to another angle of inquiry. 

London itself would show him the anomalies he was looking for. The map of London was so big that it covered the kitchen table completely, leaving John no choice but to eat his breakfast on the sofa. He’d tried moving it or just putting his bowl on top of it, but Sherlock stopped him before he could dislodge any of the pins and bits of coloured string making a crazed web across the surface. There was a pattern here, there had to be. He’d laid out the location where every weapon that was unnecessarily powerful and expensive had been used. Green string marked burglaries, red string marked murders, yellow string marked areas where weapons had been found apart from any actual crime. 

What was he missing? There were no clusters of incidences where there shouldn’t be. There were no groupings beyond the normal, predictable crimes the criminal element in the city usually carried out. Murders in the same areas as other murders, burglaries in the same areas as other burglaries. The sense that he was missing something obvious, something right in front of him, was niggling at his mind like a splinter. “Come on, show yourself. What am I missing? What am I missing? There’s always something…”

“Sorry, what’s missing?” John had come back into the kitchen so quietly that his question made Sherlock jump.

“What? Oh, uh, no, not missing. Well, no, it’s something I seem to be missing. There’s something off about this layout; I just need to find it.” Why was he so flustered? It was as if John’s interruption had shaken his brain and made all his thought pattern jumble and scatter. Sherlock forced himself back to the board with the echo of John’s voice still drowning out everything else he had been thinking. _What am I missing?... What’s missing?... Oh!_ There it was, staring him in the face. The problem wasn’t with what was on the board but with what was not on the board. 

In glee, Sherlock spun around the kitchen and grabbed John by the shoulder. He had a sudden urge to hug his rather startled flatmate, but that would have been ridiculous, so he simply spun John around with him. “It’s missing! They’re all missing! Come on, we’re going to Earl’s Court. Get your clothes on. And bring your gun!”

It took him a bit to find a cab so early in the morning, but he had just managed to flag one down by the time John came trotting out. He was still shrugging into his jacket as they climbed into the back and Sherlock gave the driver a general destination. “Any chance you’re going to tell me why we have to run about like this before the sun’s properly up?”

“The map didn’t show me where something out of the ordinary had occurred because the change in the pattern was missing. Everything else was spread out the way you’d expect, but there have been absolutely no incidences of heavy assault weapons being used in crimes within the south eastern corner of Earl’s Court. That should tell us something.”

“What, you think the Americans have something to do with all this?”

“No, the Russians. The man we met in the warehouse spoke to me in Russian before assaulting me. The woman responsible for writing that dreadful song giving directions to the warehouse is a Russian expat named Korolieva Pchela. The weapons themselves are manufactured in Russia. And those same guns have been conspicuously absent in a neighbourhood largely inhabited by Russian immigrants.”

“But why would a Russian criminal mastermind suddenly want to ship guns to England?”

“Moriarty must be pulling the strings again. He demonstrated quite amply that he doesn’t mind the attention.”

“Yeah, but we haven’t heard anything from him or about him since he ran off at the Pool last month. I mean, last time he was pretty keen on letting you know that it was him behind it. We don’t even know where he is. Whatever got him so interested might have taken him right out of the country. You sure you’re not just a bit obsessed?”

“No one else would have the resources to accomplish something of this scale. And causing mayhem purely for the sake of mayhem is exactly Moriarty’s style.”

“So we’re going to confront a possible gang of angry Russians and possibly a psychotic consulting criminal with access to lots of guns and, what, make them all grumpy by waking them up? I’m phoning the police this time, Sherlock. I won’t do whatever it is you think you’re going to do without Lestrade at least knowing about it.” Since he was already dialling his mobile, Sherlock didn’t bother trying to stop him. He leaned back against the seat and tried to think of what they would be looking for in a quiet, residential neighbourhood that would signal secret weapons smugglers. 

Lestrade was already waiting for them at an intersection fairly close to the centre of the empty circle on Sherlock’s mental map. It was obvious he’d been up late and had only just rolled out of bed for John’s request _(hair sticking up in the back but forced flat in front: slept on his back and hadn’t checked the back of his head before leaving; patches of stubble under the chin: shaved in a hurry, possibly in the car while driving; dark circles under his eyes; coffee cup larger than normal)_. “Sherlock, this had better be good. Doctor Watson said smugglers and Russians and assault rifles and all that. Please tell me you’re just having a go at me.”

Sherlock barely spared him a glance from his scan of the area. “The evidence suggests that the out-of-proportion weapons used in various crimes are being deliberately shipped to London by a ring of smugglers with ties to Russia. The lack of any such weapons in this area must mean that purchasers are being warned to stay away from the home of someone involved. Someone at the head of the operation doesn’t want his work to interfere with his home life.”

John cleared his throat. “So, what exactly are we looking for, then? A Russian family with a secret gun vault in the cellar?”

“Don’t get any ideas, Sherlock,” Lestrade hastily put in. “We’re not going to go knocking on people’s doors and demanding to see their cellars.”

“That would be pointless. No one in his right mind would store massive quantities of projectile weapons where he sleeps.”

“Right, then, what are you looking for round here?” Lestrade had the patient look of a man who knew he would be running about in circles very soon and couldn’t see any way to avoid it.

“Something off. Something that doesn’t fit….”

“Thanks, that’s very helpful. I’ll call in some backup, and we can do a general sweep of the area. New neighbours, heavy traffic, extra visitors at odd hours, people suddenly getting a load of money and no way to explain it, that sort of thing. Don’t go banging on doors.”

Sherlock didn’t hear the rest of Lestrade’s instructions as he walked away. They were still a few blocks from the centre of the void on the map. He went down the street a bit, turned left, turned right, but he couldn’t be sure. Height. That’s what he needed – a higher point of view. There were no handy fire escapes in this part of town, but an outside staircase to a second storey balcony served nearly as well to allow him to climb to the roof. 

From up here, he could see the whole neighbourhood laid out below him. The angle wasn’t right, so he jumped the gap to land on the next roof and look from there. Not much improvement. Behind him, John hoisted himself over the knee-high ledge at the edge and scrambled to his feet. He didn’t say a word, just walked over to join Sherlock and stare randomly at the quiet streets.

The trees had finally put out their spring foliage, obscuring his view somewhat. People had taken advantage of the warmer weather to plant window-boxes and post-box trellises; the scents of jessamine and lavender could be identified even from this height. Only a few early risers were out at this hour: a couple of fun runners, four people taking dogs for morning walkies, a rubbish lorry making slow progress down the row of bins. There was very little auto traffic, but Sherlock could see Anderson and Donavon pull up where he had left Lestrade. _(Arriving in the same car, they weren’t on the late shift last night: back to sleeping together. Anderson has no business here, nothing Forensics can find before a crime is committed: Donovan left her car wherever it was before winding up at his place last night and made him give her a ride.)_ It all added up to a lot of nothing. Nothing special, nothing interesting, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing useful. 

He turned to John with the intention of suggesting that they try another spot when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was just a brief glimpse, like someone ducking out of sight behind the chimney three rooftops over. Finally, something interesting! With John close at his heels, Sherlock vaulted over the gaps and ran across the shingles. The chimneys on these roofs were big, low things at the very edge, more than large enough to hide a man. At Sherlock’s nod, John went round the far side, leaving the detective to approach the back cautiously. 

A brief flash of colour was all the warning he got to raise his arm, which was the only reason he wasn’t knocked unconscious again. However, the blow was enough to knock him off balance. Sherlock scrambled unsuccessfully to keep his balance, but there was nothing to grab hold of. As he fell, he heard John’s muffled shout and a dull thud from above.

John landed beside him moments later in the disgusting heap piled in the back of the rubbish lorry. Several sacks broke open under the impact, spilling forth their noxious contents. Struggling to get to his feet among the old coffee grinds and rotten fruit, Sherlock could see no sign of their assailant on the roof. The lorry chugged on to the next bin; apparently, the driver had no idea that the back of his vehicle was occupied. Fortunately, Lestrade had seen them fall and managed to convince the lorry driver to stop and let the two out of the back. 

At the sight of the banana peels and sodden coffee grounds covering them, Sgt Anderson let out a barking laugh. “Couldn’t wait to get home for a bit of a tumble, boys? Or do you just like it really filthy? That’s a great look on you, by the way, Freak!”

John glowered at the guffawing man, but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and turned to Lestrade. “We were attacked from behind, so I never saw a face. The man was trained in hand-to-hand combat. He’s between 190 and 195 centimetres tall and 17 stone. There must be a hatch leading from inside the house to the roof. Let’s start with this house.” 

He was about to ring the bell when the DI grabbed his arm. “Sherlock, it’s not yet 7 in the morning. It’s too early for anyone to have to deal with you, especially in your current state. Go talk to the lorry driver; we’ll see if these people know anything about strange men jumping about on their roofs.”

Talking to the lorry driver proved a complete waste of time. The man had been plugged in to his iPod through the whole business and hadn’t noticed anything, even people falling in the back. Lestrade didn’t have any more luck with the nearby residents, mostly retired Americans. Sherlock would normally have demanded a stakeout and a thorough canvassing of the area, but one look at John stopped him. Anderson and Donavon’s snide comments and snickers were seriously starting to annoy John, if the set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders meant anything. It had started to rain, too, a fine misting that would inevitably soak anything left outside, and John wasn’t wearing his usual jumper. Reluctantly, Sherlock agreed to accept a lift back to the flat from Lestrade. He hated riding in police cars, but no cab would have them in their state. The entire ride passed in silence. 

Turning from shutting the front door, Sherlock was greeted by the sight of his flatmate frantically removing his jacket and shirt. The sodden garments were flung to the kitchen floor before John began attacking his trouser buttons. “John, what are you…?” Sherlock was unable to finish the thought as John off peeled his ruined jeans, standing in the kitchen wearing only his pants. Pants that were currently soaked and sticking to his skin in intriguing folds. Pants that were so wet as to be nearly see-through.

“I’m not dripping this mess through the flat, Sherlock. I’ll take it to the laundry after I shower. It won’t be in the kitchen for more than a few minutes. You might want to do the same, but I can’t promise to leave you any hot water.” As John walked up the stairs, providing Sherlock with the opportunity to perform a thorough study of the musculature of his flatmate’s backside, the most brilliant man in London was completely unable to form a coherent reply. 

It was the uncomfortable tightness in his own trousers that finally provided Sherlock with the missing piece of the puzzle. Quickly, he took stock of his bodily responses at the moment. Elevated pulse rate, uneven breathing pattern, clenching in the abdomen, dry mouth, and the obvious evidence of swollen genitals. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that he even had dilated pupils. For all logical purposes, the chances were all but impossible that he was suffering simultaneously from an allergic reaction, a mild heart attack, and the results of an unremembered injury to the groin. Therefore, though he would have originally considered it to be highly improbable, the truth must be that Sherlock Holmes was experiencing a very strong sexual attraction to Doctor John Watson. This was unexpected.


	7. Chapter 7

After several days of considering all the ramifications of this most recent development in the relationship, Sherlock was forced to conclude that his current state of arousal was not likely to abate any time soon. On the contrary, thoughts of a rather explicit nature kept intruding on his otherwise perfectly ordered and rational mental processes. 

While comparing Russian and British freight regulations, he was distracted by the sight of John bending over the kitchen table to clean it. When he should have been listening for the rate of sound decay in gunshot recordings, all he could hear was the sound of John in the shower. All concentration on a particularly tricky bit of translation from a Russian manufacturer’s website was thoroughly derailed by the sight of John absently licking a bit of curry off his lower lip. His examination of the exit wounds caused by close-range, large calibre bullets was interrupted by John’s frustrated (and extraordinarily guttural) groan at finding the refrigerator entirely filled with bits of corpses that had been shot. At a time when he should have been comparing the effectiveness of different types of fabric to muffle gunshots, his mind was entirely consumed by the sight of a small tear in the back, left pocket of John’s jeans. 

When his previously well-behaved imagination began conjecturing at the most inopportune times about the possible expressions John might make during coitus and the potential rate at which such coitus might progress, Sherlock was forced to come to the conclusion that some form of sexual release must be achieved. Ideally, such a release would involve John’s participation. However, Sherlock was well aware of the fact that engaging in sexual relations with a partner who was unwilling was considered more than a bit Not Good. At the same time, Sherlock knew that broaching such a subject directly could potentially cause John to assume (erroneously) that sexual relations were an obligation for sharing the flat. The possibility of John moving out was one Sherlock found entirely distasteful, not least because he would also have to move out when the rent became too much to pay by himself. Indirect methods of inquiry had to be planned. 

___________________________________________________________________________

Clearly, the first factor to be ascertained was John’s openness to homosexual intercourse. During the course of their time as flatmates, Sherlock had only ever seen him date women, but that hardly counted as concrete evidence. A brief foray into various internet dating sites introduced him to the concepts of bisexuals, demisexuals, asexuals, pansexuals, transsexuals, and a whole host of _Other_. This was momentarily overwhelming for Sherlock, who had never before seriously considered sexual attraction as anything other than a motivating factor for other, more tedious people. 

He first designed a very simple experiment to gauge John’s reactions to erotic, visual and auditory, homosexual stimulation. When the doctor was at work a few days after their venture into the rubbish lorry, Sherlock loaded a program onto his laptop. Designed by a contact in London’s extensive homeless network who had been formerly employed as a programmer, this bit of code would automatically play explicit clips of gay pornographic videos whenever John’s computer had been in use but the keyboard had been idle for more than five minutes. All Sherlock had to do was wait for the program’s inevitable start and then sit back and catalogue John’s physical response. 

He did not have long to wait. As he was still only working half-shifts at the surgery, John returned to the flat in mid-afternoon. Sherlock had made sure to arrange the room so that he would have a clear and unobstructed view of John’s entire body. The table had been piled high with volatile-looking experiments, one armchair was occupied by printouts of all of the Yard’s cold case files involving heavy gauge firearms, and the other was occupied by Sherlock himself. The only place left for John was on the sofa, directly facing a brilliantly observant detective. He was doing his best to appear intently focused on the file he was pretending to read. 

Judging by his keystrokes, John first checked his email upon powering up the computer. After deleting several spam messages _(lips clenched in annoyance but brows elevated slightly in resignation)_ , John opened a message from Harry _(emotional distress indicated by the deep breath and squaring of his shoulders before pressing the left button on the touch pad)_. Before composing a response, John stared out the window for several minutes. Sherlock could barely contain his anticipation. 

_Three…two…one…_

Muffled moans and obscene cries of pleasure abruptly filled the room. John jumped, tea splashed everywhere, and the laptop clattered to the floor, where it continued to produce amplified sounds of two men obviously enjoying themselves. “Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell was that?!” Sherlock was disappointed: John was so out-of sorts at being startled that any physical reactions at this point would be utterly meaningless for the purposes of research. Repeat trials would have to be performed. 

As John went to clean the tea off himself, Sherlock took the opportunity to adjust the volume on the laptop. With a lower decibel level, John would be less likely to be startled, and his reactions would stem directly from the visual stimulation on the screen. The computer (fortunately unharmed by its fall) was returned to its previous spot on the floor just as John’s footsteps announced his imminent return. Once again, Sherlock settled down to wait. He was not disappointed. 

The program started three times before John decided to run a virus scan. Each time, his physical reactions were extremely minor, probably unnoticeable to anyone less brilliant than Sherlock Holmes. There was no visible evidence of an erection, though that could have been hidden by the position of the computer. At the distance, it was difficult to be certain, but John’s pupils did appear to be dilated slightly more than normal for staring at a brightly-lit screen. His skin was not noticeably flushed, but his breathing sped up. The second time the moaning started, John glanced uncomfortably at Sherlock and muted the speakers. It was still evident every time the videos started up again, because John would shift uncomfortably in his seat. Most tellingly, it took him a bit longer each time to force the videos to close. 

Naturally, the virus scan did not catch the legally-installed program. Unable to complete anything without a pornographic interruption, John gave up and turned the computer off. Sherlock determined that this first experiment had shown promising results; however, more data would have to be gathered before determining John Watson’s sexual orientation.


	8. Chapter 8

An ideal opportunity presented itself within the week. By combing through the history on Dmitri Karolinski’s mobile, the Yard had found a number of calls made to a particular number in the past three months. There were no nonsense text messages sent, only voice calls. Sherlock insisted that he needed to go undercover to speak to the recipient, who worked as a stripper at one of the more flamboyant nightclubs in Soho. John appeared less than thrilled about the prospect of accompanying him for this interview. 

“I don’t see why you need my help. It’s not as if a doctor would turn up anything you couldn’t see for yourself. D’you really think they’re going to start shooting at you from behind the curtains?”

“Social norms in this establishment dictate that a man arriving alone is advertising a desire to make contacts for further sexual congress. Two men arriving together will be assumed to be in a relationship – however open – and therefore will be let alone upon demonstrating a desire to do nothing more than observe. With you seated beside me, I can interview Kevin Philips and leave without arousing suspicion by not requesting to join him backstage or at the end of his shift. I already asked Lestrade, but he claimed to have better things to do with his time. Your Friday shift ends a full three hours before the club opens, you haven’t been out with Sarah since wearing that awful cologne, and there is no football match involving either of the clubs you follow that evening, so I know you’ve got no prior plans.” 

Sherlock turned his attention back to the test tubes in front of him, but he couldn’t help a satisfied smirk from creeping across his face. This would be very educational, he was certain. John’s reaction to the pornographic videos had no doubt been compromised by his annoyance at the interruption. The combination of direct visual stimulation and the unspoken offer of physical stimulation would be certain to cause very noticeable reactions that Sherlock could observe and catalogue. He smiled again when John merely sighed in accquiesance.

In the interest of ensuring an accurate reading of the results this experiment produced, Sherlock took the precaution of pilfering a pair of John’s jeans from the hamper at every opportunity. By the time he got home on Friday afternoon, John’s only options for trousers were the formal work slacks he was currently wearing and the old pair of jeans that were slightly too small for him. The doctor didn’t even seem to notice the peculiar qualities of this garment, but Sherlock was gratified to note that he would be able to see clearly any significant change in his flatmate’s level of arousal. 

The club itself, City Boys, was a garish nightmare of alarming decor and frightful music. They were early enough that they were able to secure a table in an ideal location, one with an unobstructed view of the stage but enough privacy that they would be able to talk to Kevin Philips without broadcasting their conversation to the other patrons. Their waiter, a bored, young, blonde man showing ridiculous amounts of skin _(guitar picks on necklace, hastily applied fake tattoo on bicep, calloused fingertips only on the left hand, faint bruising just below jaw line on left side: classically trained violinist pretending to be a punk guitarist while at work in hopes of making better tips)_ took John’s drinks order and shrugged when asked for information about the performers for the evening _(spelled whiskey wrong, fumbling for a pen, nervous glances at the barkeep: first week on the job)_. 

John was clearly nervous, frequently looking around the room and back to the stage, then shifting lower in his seat. It wasn’t until the dancing began that he forgot to worry about whether he’d be seen by someone who recognised him. At first, Sherlock didn’t see any signs of arousal that could not just as easily have been caused by discomfort at the current situation. John’s face was flushed, but he _had_ just drunk three shots of whiskey in rapid succession. 

Most of the dancers were fairly mediocre performers, with a decided lack of originality in their choreographies and no real concept of rhythm. Kevin Philips, when he finally appeared, was even worse than the others. Watching him strip onstage was no more arousing than watching a store mannequin be disrobed. At the conclusion of the blessedly brief performance, Sherlock asked the undercover violinist to refill John’s drink and compliment Kevin on their behalf. This had the predicted result of bringing the dancer to their table shortly after to meet his fans. 

He had replaced some of his garments, but most of his thin chest and limbs were still plainly visible beneath the open shirt and very tight trousers. At Sherlock’s nod, Kevin plopped his lanky frame into the empty chair beside John and leaned in close to the doctor. 

“Hey, tiger. I’m glad you liked what you saw up there. I can show you more, if you think he wouldn’t mind.” He blinked in what he must have thought was a coy manner through the thick black fringe falling over his eyes. 

Sherlock found the man’s attempts to seduce John distasteful, obviously a rehearsed script clumsily executed. Nevertheless, he took advantage of the idiot dancer’s distraction with John to insert leading comments into the conversation that would have sounded alarm bells to anyone with marginal intelligence. In short order, Sherlock was able to deduce that Kevin lived alone in Blackwell but had frequent overnight visitors, that he spoke a few words of Russian with a very bad accent, and that he was sexually aroused by tattoos. When asked whether he had any tattoos of his own, Kevin nervously rubbed the back of his head and admitted that he was afraid of needles. 

All the time, Sherlock’s attention was divided between the things Kevin let slip and John’s responses to the rather explicit sexual overtures. Even taking into account John’s increasingly inebriated state, Sherlock was still able to deduce a number of promising things about potential sexual relations. The flush on John’s face had spread down his neck; if he was merely drunk, only his cheeks would have been flushed. When Kevin laid his hand on John’s knee, the doctor shifted uncomfortably in his seat but did not remove the hand. Despite repeated attempts to avoid looking in that area, John’s gaze was drawn to the blatant bulge in Kevin’s trousers approximately every three to five seconds. Under the pretence of asserting his supposed claim over his “date,” Sherlock reached across the table to take John’s hand, letting his fingertips rest against the pulsing vein in his wrist: pulse rate highly elevated and palms mildly perspiring. Though John jumped and tensed when he felt the contact, he did not immediately draw his hand away. Interesting. 

At that moment, Kevin leaned very close to John and whispered something in his ear. The pounding music prevented Sherlock from hearing precisely what was said, but John immediately jerked away. “Sherlock, it’s getting late. I have work in the morning, remember?” He stood, awkwardly, and turned to Kevin. “Thank you for the performance; nice to have met you, but I’m afraid we have to go now.” 

As he strode stiffly toward the exit, across the now-crowded lounge area, Sherlock rose to follow him. Before putting a few bills on the table, he couldn’t help but catch Kevin’s proud smirk. No doubt the stripper had also seen what John had tried so hard to conceal with his casually carried jacket; the doctor’s sizeable erection had been clearly visible through his abnormally tight trousers.

John was silent for most of the cab ride home, leaving Sherlock to work through his analysis of recent events in peace. Finally, when his breathing had returned to normal and the flush was mostly gone from his neck, John cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. “I hope that was worth it for you, Sherlock. Did you at least find out what you wanted while he was pawing at me?”

“Yes, John. Tonight’s activities have been most… illuminating.” The evidence was fairly overwhelming that John harboured at least some latent homosexual leanings. His uncomfortable response to Kevin’s clumsy advances suggested that he had never done much to explore these tendencies, however, despite the example set by his sister. Therefore, it was likely that, if Sherlock were to make any blatant suggestions in the near future, he would be thoroughly rebuffed. Though John was not a subtle person by any stretch of the imagination, it would clearly require subtlety to persuade him to assist his flatmate in achieving sexual release. This next stage of research would require patience and very careful planning. Fortunately, Sherlock Holmes was possessed of vast resources of patience when in pursuit of information and solutions to life’s various puzzles.

The first step was to make John aware of the sexual capabilities of a man most people assumed to be entirely asexual (indeed, Sherlock had been among those believing himself to be asexual until this most recent development; it was distinctly disconcerting to find he had made the same erroneous assumption as the morons with whom he regularly interacted). After a brief and entirely useless search for information online for attracting a sexual mate, Sherlock was left to devise his own stratagems, based on the behaviour he had observed in other people and in the animal kingdom at large. A display of physical prowess was in order.


	9. Chapter 9

The very next morning, John stumbled, bleary-eyed, down the stairs to find Sherlock stripped to the waist and whirling about the living room wielding a scimitar like a mad dervish. For two hours, he had been practicing with his scimitar, consciously moving to display the qualities most commonly associated with virility any time the faintest sound of movement came from upstairs. As John reached the living room, Sherlock spun to face him, posing carefully to display his physique in the most imposing and masculine position he could achieve. Just in case, he peeked at his reflection in the mirror (shoulders back, spine straight, flushed cheeks, sheen of manly sweat, arms raised forcefully, pyjamas slung low around his hips to show the line of dark hair spreading lower), and was satisfied to see that his posture was precisely the same as a male orang-utan or gorilla attracting a mate. Sherlock held this position for 3.5 seconds before lowering the scimitar slowly to his side. “Good morning, John. Sleep well?”

Rather than swooning with lust (or hooting and drawing back his upper lip while puffing out his cheeks, as a female orang-utan was wont to do), John simply muttered incoherently before shuffling to the kitchen. As he moved sleepily about the kitchen, his flatmate was left to consider in what respect his display could have been lacking. Though he had no illusions in regard to his own physical appearance, Sherlock could admit that he was, objectively speaking, possessed of several of the physical traits most often sought after by courting humans (by orang-utan and gorilla standards, he had to admit that he was sadly lacking). Why, then, had John seemed oblivious? He had certainly not been oblivious to the physical traits of the men at the club. Was it the sword? Was it the perceived aggression in the wielding of the sword? Was there something off-putting about Sherlock himself?

As his mind whirled, considering and discarding various possible explanations for the lack of a reaction, Sherlock could hear John stumble through his morning routine of caffeine preparation and ingestion. He was still idly swinging the scimitar and working through several theories when John walked back through the sitting room, mug in hand. This time, he stopped abruptly when he caught sight of Sherlock. “What the hell are you doing? It’s a bit early for Lawrence of Arabia try-outs…” Sherlock noted that John's gaze, though still bleary and not quite focussed, strayed far more frequently to the prominently displayed body than was usual.

“It is imperative that I determine whether a left-handed assailant would have the swing pattern necessary to produce a series of slashes found on the wall of the room where an illegal Russian mail-order bride was found cut to pieces twelve years ago. As I am not naturally dominant with my left hand, I am finding this exercise more physically trying than anticipated.” As he spoke, Sherlock slowly moved the sword around as an excuse to move and flex various muscle groups under John’s intense, though abortively masked, gaze. John’s grip tightened on his mug so hard that Sherlock could see his knuckles turn white. Even from this distance, he could see a distinct change in John’s breathing pattern, which had become both shallower and less even than it had been upon his original descent from his bedroom. “Are you feeling alright, John? Are you ill?”

John’s gaze snapped up to meet Sherlock’s. “What? No! I’m fine. It’s… fine,” he finished lamely as he turned and walked back up the stairs. As he retreated, Sherlock noted that John’s gait had become markedly stiffer in the last few minutes. That could be because the psychosomatic leg pain was flaring up again, as it was wont to do in times of mental stress. It could also be caused by the early stages of an erection putting pressure on the medial quadriceps and forcing an altered stance. As this last consideration crossed his mind (and lingered), Sherlock was initially surprised to note his own growing arousal. So, it would appear that merely the thought of John Watson with an erection was enough to trigger one of his own. Intriguing…

Sherlock had fairly conclusive data to suggest that John could be sexually attracted to other men, despite evidence pointing to the possibility that he had never explored that possibility before. He also had absolutely conclusive data to suggest that he himself was attracted to John. However, the tests up to this point had yielded inconclusive results to determine whether John was experiencing a reciprocal attraction to Sherlock. He had repeatedly timed his exit from the shower, wrapped only in a towel, so that he would casually bump into John in the hallway in a state of almost total undress. John’s reactions had been less than satisfactory. Though he appeared to have developed a mild stammering problem and a tendency to blush, John did not develop a visible erection nor stare any longer than normal at Sherlock’s blatantly displayed anatomy. Clearly, Sherlock would have to devise different parameters for his experiment if his research was to be at all successful.


	10. Chapter 10

Close physical proximity was often a trigger for sexual arousal, or so the most recent research into biochemistry and pheromones would suggest. Sherlock took advantage of this idea to suggest a visit to a particular source of highly useful information. Naturally, John was not as enthusiastic.

“I still don’t see why we have to look for this man during rush hour. Wouldn’t he be easier to spot without all these people about?” They had been travelling from station to station for well over an hour, with what seemed like half of London squeezed into the tunnels beside them. Normally, the press of so many people would have been insufferable, but Sherlock was focused on his plan. 

“The most profitable hours for beggars and street musicians are those during peak travel volume, when they have the most exposure to the public. He moves about from station to station to rotate his audience, but the man we’re looking for follows a fairly regular cycle of platforms during the week. We’ll try Victoria Station next. Come on!”

As they stepped into the last carriage, Sherlock made sure that they reached a position where the crush of bodies prohibited either of them from reaching any of the helpful straps and handles placed to assist passengers with balance. John immediately adopted a slightly wider stance, with his knees bent and his weight evenly balanced. Clearly, he was accustomed to rides like this. Though Sherlock could have imitated him and avoided stumbling, that would have defeated the purpose of this experiment entirely. As soon as the train lurched into motion, Sherlock let the inertia carry him forward the few inches necessary to fall clumsily into John’s instinctively raised arms. With a mumbled apology, he regained his balance, deliberately ignoring John’s smirk.

“Travel like this often, do you? I think you’ve got too used to cabs and Mycroft’s car.” 

Doubtless, John would have continued having a go at him, but a particularly jarring turn in the tracks gave Sherlock another opportunity to lurch toward him. This time, he had the foresight to clutch at John’s coat a little in feigned desperation to avoid falling. When he righted himself, Sherlock took care to stand a little closer. John displayed amusement and exasperation at Sherlock’s awkward antics, but there was no sign of arousal. 

“I’ll just hold on to you, since you’re apparently such a stalwart bastion of balance on public transportation. I don’t know why they build these things the way they do. Anyone could fall in here.” Sherlock reached out and grabbed hold of John’s shoulders, pressing himself right up against the shorter man, chest to chest. John still didn’t show anything that might be considered a sign of sexual attraction. In growing frustration, and noting that the next stop was nearly upon them, Sherlock took advantage of the swaying motion of the carriage to rock his hips slightly against the curve of John’s lower belly. 

John jumped and looked up at Sherlock’s chin (the only part of his face visible from such a close angle). “Um, Sherlock…”

“What?” He was pleased to see that John’s face was becoming distinctly pinker than normal.

“Is that… um… are you… you know?” John’s face was quite red now.

“Don’t be dense, John. I picked up a bundle of test tubes at Bart’s this morning.” He rolled his eyes and snorted in derision. As soon as John looked away, still flushing furiously, Sherlock smirked. The test tubes were in his breast pocket. This particular item of research hadn’t yielded much in the way of results, but it was certainly enjoyable.

As soon as they stepped onto the platform at Victoria, Sherlock knew they had found his quarry at last. The air was filled with the sweet, sad sounds of an Irish lament being drawn from a violin. Sherlock led the way over to the source of the music, a gnarled street fiddler sitting on a throne formed by several battered instrument cases piled atop one another, a busking license prominently displayed upside down on a lanyard around his neck. The musician’s hair was startlingly white against the wrinkled ebony of his skin, and his eyes had the clouded, unfocused look of the completely blind. 

He drew the last strains from his instrument and let the notes hang, shimmering in the air as John and Sherlock approached. With a soft chuckle, he turned his sightless gaze to the pair. “Sherlock Holmes, I’d know those flapping coattails anywhere! Still the showman, I reckon?” His deep voice rolled out like aged bourbon and cigars and the fecund swamps of Louisiana.

“Doctor Bell, perceptive as ever. John, this is Doctor Joseph Bell, my first violin teacher.” The blind violinist held out his hand for John to shake. 

John smiled. “Hello. Your playing is lovely. I can see where Sherlock gets his skill.”

Doctor Bell laughed, “You’re too polite, John. You must be Sherlock’s new roommate. A soldier and a doctor, right? I sure hope your sharpshooting can keep him in his skin.”

“Oh. I guess Sherlock’s told you.”

“Naw, he doesn’t come to see me unless he needs something these days. You have doctor’s hands, all that washing you’ve got to do. You walk like a military man, though, all heel strikes and perfect rhythms. Plus, you’ve still got the callouses on your fingers from sniper training. And Sherlock doesn’t play anymore except at home.”

“You knew all that without even seeing me? Fantastic,” John said, looking back and forth between the old musician and the smirking sleuth. “I guess you taught Sherlock more than just music. He had to look at my tan lines to learn that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Doctor Bell chuckled. “He never did learn to listen. You see, people are just like instruments: you gotta listen to the sounds they’re not making to really understand. It doesn’t matter what beautiful sounds you can create if you never stop to listen to them. Sherlock was always so all-fired eager to hear what came next that he never listened to the pauses between the notes. Shame, really. He could’ve been a damn fine musician, otherwise.”

“Fascinating as this is, we didn’t actually come here to discuss my musical shortcomings, Doctor Bell. We need some information about a gang of Russians operating under the direction of Jim Moriarty. There’s nothing that happens in these tunnels that you don’t hear.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, son,” Doctor Bell chuckled again. “Word on the tracks is that there’s a new player in the game. See, I heard the name Moriarty being whispered a few months back, but I haven’t heard a peep about him since the end of March. Russians, now. That’s a bit more interesting. Lots of new folks speaking Russian down here, and not all of ‘em making much sense.”

Sherlock grinned. “I knew the Russians were behind it-“

“I didn’t say they were Russians,” Doctor Bell interrupted him. “You still haven’t learned to listen, Sherlock. I said they were speaking Russian. Some of them were just barely speaking it. Ukrainians, Brits, Argentines, I could swear I even heard one man who sounded like back home in New Orleans, but they were all muddling through in Russian. I’m sure you can make something of that, Sherlock; I just sit here and listen.”

“Any idea who this new player is or where I can find him?”

“I told you all I know, son. I’ll keep my ears open, but it’s up to you to listen to the spaces between the notes, Sherlock.” With that, the old man turned and pulled a gleaming saxophone out of the case beside him. He carefully stowed the violin in its own battered case, then rearranged the trunks to form a more comfortable seat. 

John cleared his throat awkwardly. “You've got quite a lot of string instruments here. Can you really play them all?" 

"Wouldn't have 'em if I couldn't play 'em, son. Why do you ask?" 

John's face was grower redder by the minute. That was odd; why would this conversation be making him uncomfortable? "Sorry, I know it's none of my business. I just thought, with the diabetes, there might have been some nerve damage over the years. But, uh, I suppose you've got it well in hand. Sorry, sorry... I shouldn't've asked."

“That’s mighty kind of you, son, but I can still feel all the strings well enough. Now, you tell me: what made you think diabetes?”

“Well, uh, the marks on your fingers from regular testing pricks. And the skin on the backs of your hands has a couple of blisters that look like bullosis, so you’ve had it for a while. You don’t show any signs of nerve damage, though, so it must be controlled.” John’s stammered deductions and red face were enough to make Sherlock feel rather warm himself. He’d never thought hearing John try to apply his methods of reasoning would be quite so arousing. 

“Sherlock, I think you’ve rubbed off on him! You better hang on to this one; he’s quite a catch.” Still grinning broadly, the wizened old man looped his saxophone around his neck and poured out a series of liquid tones in the best Big Easy style jazz. 

Since they had clearly been dismissed, Sherlock and John made their way across the platform and up into the early spring sunshine. Sherlock was momentarily distracted from considering all the implications of Doctor Bell’s information by the look on John’s face.

“Problem, John?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, it's just... I can't help feeling bad for the old man. Having to keep busking like that at his age, especially when he's sick.”

Much to John’s astonishment, Sherlock actually laughed. “You don’t have to worry about Doctor Bell. He makes more money than you do, I’d wager. Has a nice little house just outside London. He just plays on the Tube because he was bored after he retired from teaching. Didn’t you see the state of his shoes? Or the lack of damp on his clothes, despite the rain we’ve had for the past three days?”

“Right. Of course. I made a fool of myself because my tiny little mind just can’t keep up with the likes of you. Well, anyway, it looks like we won’t have to worry about Moriarty after all.”

“No, but that still doesn’t answer the question of what we do have to worry about. Oh, this keeps getting better and better!” People pretending to be Russian, a new adversary to figure out, and John’s ability to make his own deductions based upon medical evidence. Sherlock had quite a lot to occupy his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited for accuracy with the help of BettySwallocks, to whom I am profoundly grateful.


	11. Chapter 11

The idea for the new avenue of inquiry into John’s proclivities came to Sherlock as he was reading the Yard’s notes on the case of a botched kidnapping. Forced physical contact. That would no doubt lead to very conclusive results within a short period of time. He looked up from his reading just as John’s footsteps sounded in the hall. Perfect. “John, come over here. I need your assistance.”

Warily, John hung up his jacket and came over to stand next to Sherlock’s perch. “You’re not going to start testing chemicals on me again, are you? Only, I’d rather keep my limbs intact, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Hmm? Oh, that. No. I need to test a theory I’ve had about the placement of bruises on a relatively small person’s throat when attacked by a much larger assailant.”

“So you’re going to choke me because I’m short? No, thanks. I’ll be leaving now.” As he was saying this, John took several steps back toward the door.

“Don’t be absurd. I’m not actually going to choke you. There will be no loss of air on your part. I simply need to see where the thumb would rest in relation to the little finger. Just hold still.” Sherlock reached out, but John stepped neatly out of his reach and edged toward the door, the kitchen, the staircase, anywhere that wasn’t within the range of Sherlock’s ridiculously long arms. 

“You want me to hold still and let you wrap your fingers around my throat? How mad do you think I am? Absolutely not! No way!” John continued to back around the room, eventually manoeuvring so the coffee table was between them. Sherlock simply stepped over the offending piece of furniture.

“You’re being ridiculous. I won’t even apply any pressure. All I want to do is determine whether Dmitri Karolinski could have been involved in a cold case strangulation from seven years ago. If I’m right, it will prove that he’s been in the country for much longer than we thought before. Are you really going to let your squeamishness stand in the way?” As expected, this last appeal made John pause just long enough so Sherlock could grab him and twist him to the desired position. With his back to Sherlock (and his face clearly visible in the reflection from the television screen), John finally stilled long enough for his throat to be gently measured. Sherlock’s long fingers traced up the sides of John’s neck, feeling the flutter of the pulse just below the jaw. In the reflection, he could see John’s look of resignation and annoyance at this new invasion of personal space. This was wrong. There was far too much space between them for adequate data to be gathered. The placement of his hands would also create a pattern of bruising completely different to that found on the victim, but that was hardly the point.

“No, this wouldn’t work. See? I couldn’t crush your trachea at all from this position. And it’s entirely too easy for you to get away. Lift your arms.” Sherlock stepped in closer, pulling John flush against him, back to chest. The sudden contact made his stomach twist and lurch, almost pleasantly. From this new vantage point, he could also see at close range the slow spread of pink across the back of John’s neck to his ears. 

The subject in question sounded less than pleased, however. After an initial, breathless gasp that gave Sherlock some hope that this experiment might prove more successful than the rest, John twisted out of his grasp and turned to glare up at him. “Crush my trachea? Forgive me if I’m not exactly reassured when you say things like that so easily. Why do you want me to lift my arms, then? What’s that going to prove?”

“I am merely going to attempt to reach your throat with my forearms crossed over your chest and my elbows under your arms. Your, er, the victim’s mobility would be drastically reduced, and the position of the assailant’s fingers would be completely different. You’re being tedious, John. I would have been done already if you didn’t insist on stopping me so often.” Slowly, John turned away again and lifted his arms just a bit. It was sufficient for Sherlock to slip his arms under John’s, at which point he could quite easily place both hands around his flatmate’s throat. In this position, with John held flush against him, his back pressed tightly against Sherlock’s chest, his scent filling Sherlock’s lungs, it was very easy even for his brilliant mind to forget the task at hand. At the sight of John’s face _(tipped back, eyes half shut, mouth slightly open: signs of either arousal or asphyxiation)_ reflected in the dark glass, Sherlock felt the need to tilt his hips subtly backwards to avoid pressing his burgeoning erection into John’s perfectly placed backside. 

Recalling himself to the reason for this manoeuvre, Sherlock risked a look down. Damn John’s bulky jumpers! All he could see was a lot of beige wool. The screen of the telly didn’t reflect low enough to show whether John’s trousers were tighter than they had been. Though strangely reluctant to give up this position, Sherlock dropped his arms and stepped back. Immediately, he felt the chill of the London air where John’s body had touched. Although he swallowed audibly and raised a hand gingerly to his neck, John turned to face Sherlock rather than immediately bolting. A solution flashed into Sherlock’s mind.

“Perhaps the victim was facing the assailant. That would account for the bruising also found on the shoulders. The hands would be positioned differently as well.” With no other warning, he spun John about, this time pressing their chests together and wrapping his long arms around John’s torso, pinning his arms to his sides. From this position, he could just reach both hands around John’s neck. John’s face was pressed gently into his shoulder, causing his head to twist slightly. “Oh, “breathed Sherlock. “Oh, this is marvellous. John, this is simply perfect!” At the sight of his fingers forming the pattern reflected so clearly by the bruises shown in the autopsy photos, Sherlock was so excited he nearly forgot the primary objective of this particular endeavour. He recalled himself just in time.

A slight shift in his weight brought the top of his thigh between John’s legs; a very minor twist of his spine allowed him to press the side of his hip very gently into the area so thoroughly concealed by John’s loose trousers. There it was: an unmistakable firmness. Unless he was carrying a bundle of test tubes in his pocket for some reason, the evidence clearly indicated that Doctor John Watson felt some measure of sexual attraction to his flatmate. Of course, there was also the possibility that John felt some higher degree of arousal at the implied threat of asphyxiation; Sherlock had come across several internet sites claiming that such things were possible. When Sherlock released him and stepped back, John remained very still _(eyes wide and glazed: surprise and mental confusion) (chest heaving: drastically increased respiratory rate, adrenaline flooding his system) (biting his lip: unconscious focus on erogenous zone)_ for a moment. 

With a snap, John seemed to recall himself. As always when he felt thoroughly discomfited, he fell back on his military training. Mouth snapped shut, shoulders back, spine ramrod straight, head high, eyes refusing to meet Sherlock’s, John turned about-face and strode briskly toward his bedroom. Sherlock heard the door close and then the creak as John sat down on his bed. 

Well. That was certainly informative. Sherlock had to concentrate very hard on recording the precise positions of his fingers in comparison with the bruising in the photos before he could sit down without some degree of discomfort. He didn’t hear a sound from John’s bedroom.


	12. Chapter 12

Given the ease with which John attracted women, Sherlock judged it best to act as swiftly as possible on the new information he had in regards to sexual possibilities. As soon as he heard John’s footsteps going out the front door the next morning, Sherlock built up a roaring fire in the sitting room. He turned the thermostat up to the highest setting possible and carefully covered the windows so that no heat could escape. Despite the early spring chill outside, the flat soon felt like a sauna. An hour before John was due to get off work, Sherlock extinguished the fire and meticulously disposed of all traces of ash. Ten minutes before John could reasonably be expected to return, Sherlock removed the quilts from the windows and turned the thermostat back to its lowest setting. When he saw John’s familiar form trudging up the street, Sherlock removed his clothes.

Clad only in a pair of boxer shorts, Sherlock arranged himself on the sofa to afford John the best view of long limbs and bare skin when he walked in the door. With a growing sense of anticipation and adrenaline coursing through his veins, Sherlock listened for the sound of John’s key in the lock. He counted John’s footsteps on the stairs. When he heard John’s hand on the doorknob, Sherlock was half afraid he might do something foolish to give away the whole game, like laugh or smirk uncontrollably. With effort, he gained control of his traitorous body and was able to maintain his façade of languor while John walked in the room. 

“God, it’s like a furnace in here! Sherlock, what did you to the heat?” At least one part of his plan seemed to be working straight away. As soon as he was properly in the flat, John stripped off his jacket, gloves, and jumper, leaving only a thin t-shirt and trousers. 

“The thermostat’s gone off again. Mrs Hudson’s had someone in to look at it, but it was pointless. The guy the company sent was an utter waste of breath, says he’ll have to come back tomorrow.” From behind the cryptography textbook he was pretending to read, Sherlock could see that John was staring at him rather keenly. Deliberately, he trailed his fingers down his sweat-slicked torso to rest just above his hip bone. “At least it’s been good for the growth of that mold sample I scraped from Karolinski’s shoes. I’ve never seen a colony reproduce so quickly.”

John stood by the door, clearly torn. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind and went up to his bedroom to remove most of his clothes. Wearing a pair of faded cotton scrubs, he re-joined Sherlock in the sitting room and picked up his laptop (Sherlock had removed the video program when it became apparent that any data gathered would be compromised by the annoyance it caused). The two of them remained for nearly an hour, each pretending to be engrossed in separate occupations but staring whenever the other wasn’t looking, or seemed not to be looking. Sherlock had taken the precaution of arranging every reflective surface in the flat so that he had a clear view of John’s movements in every direction. His hands were nearly shaking with the effort not to reach over and trace that intriguing line of hair just below the doctor’s navel and disappearing below the waistband of his scrubs.

Finally, Sherlock noticed that the temperature had begun to drop. The final catalyst must be put into play before John noticed the change and acted upon it. With deliberately lazy movements, Sherlock stood and stretched. Though his back was turned to John, he noted in the glass of a picture frame that the doctor’s openly longing gaze followed the movement of each moving limb and rolling joint. As he walked into the kitchen, Sherlock made sure to give John an extended view of his nearly naked body. He leaned over the printouts of the strange text messages and emails on the kitchen table and pretended to shuffle through them for a minute before calling, “John, come here a minute. I need your help with this bit here.”

John didn’t even give his usual, long-suffering sigh at being used as Sherlock’s unpaid lab assistant. This time, he merely padded quietly into the kitchen and waited for specific directions. For a long moment, Sherlock continued to play with the microscope, listening to John’s breathing and noting the visible bulge in his scrubs. John wasn’t completely aroused, not yet. Sherlock was determined to change that. He stood and turned to face his flatmate, noting the dilated pupils, the way John couldn’t seem to stop worrying his lower lip, the jump of the pulse in his throat. Sherlock caught and held John’s gaze, then abruptly bent down and pressed their mouths together. 

It was amazing. It was fantastic. It was better than nicotine. It was better than cocaine. It was better than solving a complex serial murder with multiple double bluffs. His mind was absolutely clear and focused. Focused completely on the feel of John’s chapped lips, the roughness of his stubble, the rush of his gasping breath, the smell of his skin. For a brief second, John simply stood there, tense, too shocked to react. With a low growl, he suddenly surged forward, grabbing Sherlock’s bare shoulders and tilted his head to just the right angle to allow their lips to _fit_ properly. Sherlock opened his mouth and John’s tongue swept inside, tasting him, marking him, _claiming_ him. John’s broad calloused hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair and pulled him down for better access. Sherlock slid his palms down sweat-slickened skin and pressed John closer. He wanted to know every inch of this man, every dimple, every nerve, every callous, every freckle, every pore.

When John sucked at Sherlock’s lower lip and then bit down just hard enough, something in his brilliantly clever brain stopped working momentarily. If this was sex, he could suddenly understand why all those tedious, dull, boring people spent so much time and energy working to get it. He moaned against John’s mouth and tried to imitate that particular move. It seemed to work, because John jumped and bucked his hips. Encouraged, Sherlock repeated that little manoeuvre and slid his hands lower, under the drawstring of John’s scrubs to cup the heated flesh of his arse. John pushed forward, rubbing his hips into Sherlock, then stopped abruptly. 

He pulled back, and Sherlock very nearly whimpered at the loss of contact. “Wait, Sherlock. Give us a second. Are you sure this is a good idea? I don’t want things to be awkward in the morning. You know how these things can…” He trailed off as Sherlock traced his tongue down the hammering pulse in his throat. 

“Why would things be awkward? We both require sexual release. This is the most efficient arrangement for everyone concerned.”

Apparently, this was not the right answer. Rather than returning to kissing and doing that thing with his teeth, John froze. “Sex-… Sexual release? This… um, sorry. What?”

Sherlock frowned at him in puzzlement. “Isn’t that the ultimate goal? I don’t see what the problem is. You’ve demonstrated that you are, at the very least, amenable to homosexual attraction. I tested your responses to verify that you are noticeably aroused by me. You are not currently in a romantic position to achieve release with any other partner, except perhaps one hired for the duration, not your style. I have no communicable diseases of which you need to be wary. What more is there to consider?” 

John took two steps backward, breaking all physical contact between them. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw in a visible attempt to gain control of himself. Sherlock was rather dismayed to see that it was working, as evidenced by his flagging erection. “You don’t … um, it’s just…You tested me?” He blinked, hard, and shook his head. “No. You… No.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left. From his daze in the kitchen, Sherlock heard John march up the stairs to his room like an automaton, fumble about a bit, then return with the altered gait that meant he was carrying slightly less than three kilos of extra weight. Judging by the sounds at the front door, Sherlock could tell John was putting on his jacket and shoes. Sherlock wanted to tell him to stop, to come back, to explain what he had done wrong, but his body didn’t seem to be working properly anymore. John shut the door behind him, and all Sherlock could do was listen to his retreating footsteps as he walked out of the flat.


	13. Interlude

John was gone. With all his intelligence, all his powers of observation and logic, that seemed to be the only thing Sherlock could think. John was no longer here. He had been here, but he was now gone. The kitchen, which had so recently been filled with John’s nearly naked body, John’s enticing noises, John’s scent, John’s taste, John… was now completely devoid of John. 

All that was left was an endlessly repeating loop of the last few minutes playing in his mind.   
His body was rebelling against him, refusing to move from where John had left him. He sagged slightly against the table, sending papers cascading to the floor and not caring. John’s words flitted through his head, “You tested me?… No. You… No” 

Where had he gone wrong? The seduction had been going exactly according to plan. All the physical markers indicated that both parties were aroused and eager for intercourse. In fact, he realised upon looking down that he was still aroused and eager for intercourse. The ache in his groin stood in stark contrast to the recent feel of John’s eager hips. His lips felt bruised and tingly from the feel of John’s mouth. Even his breathing remained ragged and harsh, despite the current lack of physical stimulation. How had it all gone so badly so quickly?  
Sherlock tried to pinpoint logically the precise moment when everything went pear-shaped. Even his mind was rebelling now and refusing to sort through the data properly. All he could think of was the feeling of John pressed against him, hot and solid and perfect in his arms. And the look on John’s face just before he turned and left… 

Eventually, the temperature in the flat dropped enough that Sherlock started shivering, jerking out of his reverie. The extra three kilos John had carried meant he had grabbed some of his clothes before leaving. Since he had just done his laundry two days before, the only reason to leave with extra clothing was the intention to remain out all night. If he was sleeping elsewhere for one night, John wouldn’t have bothered grabbing more than his toothbrush. He intended to stay away for several days. 

As he wandered back into the sitting room to correct the thermostat, Sherlock saw that John’s laptop was still sitting on the coffee table. That could be good or bad, depending on how one read it. John used his laptop quite a lot, nearly every day. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have taken it with him. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have left it behind if he meant to be away permanently; at some point in the next few days, John meant to return to Baker Street. There was still a chance that Sherlock could fix this… thing that was going on between them. 

At the moment, he was chilly, covered in swiftly drying sweat, and still uncomfortably aroused. A shower and fierce concentration on the growth rate of the mold in the kitchen (it really was growing remarkably well) restored him to a state of relative equilibrium. The internet at large had been quite clear that masturbation was the preferred method of dealing with a frustrated erection, but Sherlock found the idea messy and unappealing. The area remained tender for several hours after the initial problem had dissipated, but that was to be expected when hypersensitive mechanoreceptors were forced into continuous activity for an extended period of time by dilated blood vessels. Still, an unpleasant side effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know - really short. I'll have another chapter up tonight, but I didn't want to leave him sitting on the floor for so long. He'd catch a cold!


	14. Chapter 14

In a futile attempt to distract himself, Sherlock set about identifying the oily residue from the empty cases in the warehouse. A few hours’ work confirmed what he had already known – the substance was left by oil used to clean and protect rifles in transit. It was all standard stuff, commonly used in Northern Europe and America. The climate in the Middle East and Eastern Europe required a more viscous type of cleaning oil. Nothing interesting there. He sent the relevant details to Lestrade and cast about for something else to work on. 

The coded messages sent to and from Dmitri Karolinski promised to be a more compelling distraction. The cipher didn’t fit the pattern of any of the code systems Sherlock had seen before. And, after working for two full days with the various possibilities in the words, Sherlock was not happy to realise that the initial dissipation of arousal had been temporary. As he tried substitution codes, symbol codes, translation codes, even literary codes, he was reminded by the smallest and most incongruous observations of precisely how good John had felt, pressed up against him, wrapped around him, moaning into his mouth, rocking his hips in desperation… Dealing with a suddenly overactive libido was very distracting, especially after he had managed to keep it properly in check up until now. After staring at the same message for four hours without any comprehension, Sherlock decided to try getting more information out of Kevin Philips, the skinny stripper. John’s abrupt departure last time had left Sherlock with quite a few unanswered questions, but he had been side-tracked by his _other_ investigation. 

It was really the perfect solution. If sexual frustration was causing problems, all he had to do was find some form of release. The club specialised in a particular form of release, even if it was very carefully not mentioned. Kevin Philips, though an amazingly bad dancer, would surely be adequate to the challenge of generating the right amount of friction and heat to achieve orgasm. On the sidewalk outside City Boys, which was just opening for the evening, Sherlock braced himself against the garish décor and music before going in search of possible relief.

The barman was busy setting up for the evening, but he waved vaguely in the direction of the back of the club in response to Sherlock’s inquiries. Kevin was sitting very close to the man with the sound equipment; judging by the other man’s stance _(leaning as far away as possible)_ and eye movements _(looking anywhere but in Kevin’s direction)_ as he adjusted volumes and microphones, this was not an arrangement he would have chosen. Sherlock nearly turned and walked away then, but Kevin caught his eye and sashayed over. _(Really, he sashayed. There was no other word to describe the man’s gait. It was absurd.)_

“Hello, lovey. Here all alone tonight? Where’s your friend got himself off to?”

“I require sexual stimulation. It is my understanding that you can provide it, if certain arrangements are made. What are those arrangements, and how would I make them? As briefly as possible, please.”

“Aren’t we eager! Your man’s gone off and left you, then? Tell you what, ducks. Just for you, I’ll make a special offer. Fifty quid, and I’ll make you forget all about him. You just follow me to Paradise.” With a lascivious wink, the bad stripper led the way to the toilets, hardly the most sanitary place for activities requiring a certain amount of exposed skin. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock followed. 

The lavatory was, fortunately, deserted and clean, at least on the surface. Kevin beckoned him into a corner cubicle. In the confined space, they were pressed together, close enough to smell the cheap beer and greasy chips on Kevin’s breath. It was difficult not to recoil in disgust. 

“What’ll it be, then? A knee-trembler? Are you the sort who gets off by touching? I tell you, I wouldn’t mind being touched by you, mate. And you know what they say about men with big feet-”

“Ugh, no. I’m revoking your speaking privileges. Just provide enough stimulation that I can achieve orgasm so I can go back to thinking rationally.” 

Kevin pouted a bit, but he shimmied down until he was kneeling. With a smirk, he reached out and palmed Sherlock’s fledging erection through his slacks. He ran his fingers down the length, squeezing a bit. It seemed as if he was going to try speaking again, but the look on Sherlock’s face stopped whatever he’d been about to say. Instead, he just opened the flies and fished Sherlock’s length out of his pants. There was no more preamble to the damp heat that engulfed him, tongue wriggling like a drowning fish across the frenulum and down the centre vein. The sensation was so utterly foreign and shocking that Sherlock immediately lost any sense of arousal, his erection flagging completely. Naturally, Kevin noticed, but he remembered his instructions not to speak. He simply increased the level of suction, which quickly became distinctly painful. 

With the vague idea of pulling the man’s mouth away from sensitive anatomy, Sherlock threaded his fingers through Kevin’s hair and started pushing away. He paused. Without the hair to cover it, the tattoo behind left Kevin’s ear was just visible. From the awkward angle, Sherlock couldn’t make out what the tattoo was supposed to represent, so he pulled the kneeling man up by the hair and turned him away to get a better look at the side of his head.

Ignoring Kevin’s squawks, Sherlock pulled out his pocket magnifier and peered at the small design nearly hidden by black hair. Almost precisely three centimetres across, it was a circle with the left half black and the right half white. 

“Who had this tattoo put on you? You’re not clever enough to come up with something like this on your own.”

Kevin struggled in earnest now. “Ow! Ow, stop that. What do you care where I got a tattoo? Anyway, roughhousing wasn’t part of our arrangement. That’ll cost- “

“Tell me how you came by this tattoo, or I’ll tell your Probation Officer that you’re soliciting for sex in the lavatories.”

“How’d you know about my Probation Officer? Are you with the police?”

“Of course you have a Probation Officer; you have a tattoo proclaiming your affinity for the Vory, even if you’re not one yourself. Who gave it to you?”

“My tat says what now? What the hell is a Vory?”

“Never mind that. Where did you get it?” Sherlock’s grip tightened on Kevin’s hair, pulling hard against the scalp.

“Alright, alright. Ow… This guy I used to see got me really pissed and took me to the shop to have it done. Hurt like bloody balls, too. Couldn’t touch my head for weeks.”

“What guy? What was his name?”

“Dmitri something or other, I don’t know.” He ran his fingers gingerly across his scalp when Sherlock finally let him go. 

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began texting Lestrade with this latest update. He noticed with disgust that his fingers had become coated with the product Kevin had used in his hair and left greasy smears on the keys as he typed. “Tell me everything you know about the man.”

“I don’t really know anything about him. He didn’t really speak English, and I’m crap with Russian, so we never really did much talking. Course, we didn’t need words, did we, eh?” His nervous laughter died quickly in the face of Sherlock’s icy glare. “Anyway, we weren’t really _together_ together, if you know what I mean. He’d come round every once in a while, stay for a couple of days, and then he’d be off again. I don’t normally go in for the foreign types, but he was always a decent shag. I haven’t seen him for months now. And I don’t know nothing about any Vories or anything else he was up to. He never said anything about anything. All we ever did was get thoroughly plastered and then shag for a while.”

“You’re being deliberately dense.”

“No, honest! That’s all I ever knew. I’d get home after my shift, and he’d be sitting on my bed. He’d let himself in somehow. Never said much, just went straight for my flies. I’d leave him there when I went back to work, and he might or might not still be around when I came home again. It was just sex; that’s all it ever was. No meaningful conversations, no sharing stories, no common interests but sex. Once or twice, he’d have someone else over while I was out, I’d hear ‘em speaking Russian, but the other blokes always left as soon as I showed up. I don’t know anything, and I wasn’t doing anything wrong! Come on, mate, don’t call my Probation Officer!”

“I am certainly not your mate, and I have no interest in speaking with your Probation Officer. Now, move so that I get out of this filthy place.”

“Wait!” Kevin looked almost desperate as Sherlock tried to reach the latch. “Don’t you want to finish what we started earlier? No charge!”

Having finally wrestled the door opened and managed to squeeze past Kevin’s skinny torso, Sherlock didn’t even bother turning around to reply. “I can think of absolutely no reason to prolong physical contact with you. You are utterly repellent and repulsive in every way.” He inspected himself quickly in the mirror for any visible traces of his recent activities and strode from the room as quickly as possible. 

Well, that had certainly proved to be productive. All traces of his former arousal were completely gone. The mere memory of Kevin’s greasy hair and skinny elbows was enough to remind Sherlock of why he had never been interested in copulation in the first place. More importantly, he now knew a possible location for the smugglers’ drop-off points, or at least a place where they met. No doubt he would have picked up on that information the last time he’d been in the club if he hadn’t been so distracted by observing John. It was yet another reminder of why he avoided sex entirely. 

_Found Karolinski’s boyfriend. Stripper at City Boys. Tattoo showing he works around mafia covered by hair behind left ear. Flat used as meet-up point. SH_

He had no doubt that the flat was completely devoid of any clues about Karolinski’s activities by this point. John said he’d been in that room at the warehouse for several months, and John was a very good doctor. If the Russian had been operating in the country for at least seven years, as proven by his involvement in the strangulation case, why had he changed his pattern and remained in confinement for so long? Either he had angered someone in charge and been confined at the warehouse as a punishment of some sort, or the activities in the room had been sensitive enough to require constant monitoring. The amount of crates that had evidently been stored in the room, combined with high level of traffic in and out of the warehouse made it far more likely that he had stayed there to provide security for the contents of the room. That level of trust would be in keeping with the evidence of his abdominal tattoo that he was related somehow to a high-ranking member of the Russian mafia. 

Sherlock was so absorbed in his deductions that the sound of his mobile startled him. It was a text from Lestrade. _What were you doing running your hands through a stripper’s hair? And at his flat, no less!_ He sent Lestrade the address and ignored the obvious bait as the cab pulled up in front of Baker Street. Petty people with their petty misconceptions and assumptions. It was really not worth his time.


	15. Chapter 15

Someone was in the flat. From the entryway, Sherlock could hear the sounds of someone in the sitting room: quiet breathing, faint rustling of clothes, minute squeaking of the battered armchair. It wasn't someone trying to hide; the breathing was too regular and calm for that. In fact, it sounded suspiciously like someone with a mild weight problem who was trained in being unobtrusive. Mycroft. There was no sense in leaving now. No doubt Mycroft had heard him come in, and to leave now would look suspiciously like retreat. With a sigh of resignation, Sherlock made his way up the steps to face his nemesis. 

As expected, the impeccably dressed figure of his brother was perched with studied nonchalance in the old, red armchair. John's chair. John's laptop, which had been left on the table just to the left, was gone. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Where is John's computer? What have you done to him?"

At the venom in his younger brother's tone, Mycroft merely smiled serenely. "I’m afraid I haven't had the pleasure of Doctor Watson's company for some time now. As for where his computer is, I would assume that it is with him. In New Zealand."

Sherlock quickly ran through the possibilities. Mycroft could be lying, but what could he possibly gain from that particular lie? If it was just an attempt to annoy his younger brother, there were better ways to accomplish that. It couldn't be an attempt to study Sherlock's reaction, because Mycroft had never before shown any interest in such things. There was no chance that Mycroft was mistaken. He had a very tiresome ability to know where people were at all times. It really was quite annoying. Therefore, John was actually in New Zealand. 

How had he got there? He couldn't afford last-minute plane tickets halfway around the world, not on what he earned at the clinic. Obviously, someone had paid the fare for him. The most likely suspect was currently twirling the handle of his umbrella and gazing at his younger brother with a self-satisfied smirk just hinting at the corners of his mouth. 

Before Sherlock could even speak, Mycroft continued, "I can assure you that I had nothing to do with Doctor Watson’s sudden change of holiday plans. It seems a grateful patient from the surgery works for one of the major airlines in some official capacity. To thank the doctor responsible for treating his son's chicken pox, the man offered him a pair of tickets. Quite generous of him, don’t you think? Blurs the line somewhat in the question of bribing physicians, but I believe we can overlook that in this particular case." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, daring him to challenge the obvious falsehood. 

Of all that, Sherlock focused on the most relevant detail. "A pair of tickets?"

"Yes. Doctor Sawyer has accompanied him. His decision to make the trip now must be due to frustration from the rather inadequate resolution of the matter with Mr Moriarty. I'm sure his abrupt departure from here last week and the fact that he stayed at Mr Stamford's residence for several days have nothing to do with his timing." Mycroft gave Sherlock a piercing stare, which he tried to return with careless indifference. 

When he couldn't meet his brother's gaze any longer, Sherlock turned away and spoke to the skull on the mantle instead. "Has John been gone? I hadn't noticed. Been working on a case, you know."

"Ah, yes, of course. The weapons smugglers. And how is that progressing? Was Mr Philips able to provide you with any new information?" Mycroft's tone left no doubt that he was perfectly aware of the nature of Sherlock's interview. It couldn't be his appearance; he had checked himself carefully before leaving. Must have been the cameras no doubt hidden in the club and the street outside. Trust Mycroft to be watching footage from security cameras in a public washroom. No matter.

"He was able to shed some light on a particular connection I had been missing, yes. I'm sure you'll receive a full report from your spies at the Yard."

"Excellent. I'm glad to hear you haven't allowed any... _distractions_ to get in the way of your work. From your rather erratic behaviour of the past few weeks, I had begun to wonder if perhaps your mind was on something other than finding the culprits. Such inattention would have been most inconvenient. Firearms are so terribly dangerous. What would we do if everyone began running about London with a pistol in his pocket?” Mycroft’s not-so-subtle reminder that he was fully aware of John’s equally illegal gun was resolutely ignored. “Still, Sherlock, it isn’t like you to become emotional like this. I’m sure Mummy will be delighted to hear of your new attachment, though I can’t see that it has improved your abilities in any significant way. Should we be expecting a happy announcement any time soon?”

With a great effort of will, Sherlock refrained from punching his brother in his smug face and spoke very evenly in the general direction of the skull, “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Mycroft. I haven’t formed any attachments, and I certainly haven’t become emotional. We both know I’m a sociopath.”

“Of course. Well, perhaps that’s for the best. You wouldn’t want to start leaving crime scenes unexplored or suspects unquestioned due to some frivolous emotional concern. That would inevitably be detrimental to the quality of service you are able to offer the fine law enforcement agencies of this great nation,” Mycroft drawled. Sherlock refused to dignify that with a response. There had been nothing more to see in Earl’s Court, and Karolinski was obviously not going to say anything, so there had been no point in hanging about either time. John was not involved in the decision to leave in any way. 

Mycroft continued, “Still, this does lead me to put to you a proposal of a rather… delicate nature. Based on your recent activities, one cannot help but speculate about potential motivating factors.” He paused and appeared to be considering his next words. “I understand that you have, to some degree, managed to overcome certain _physical necessities_. Admirable though I find this ability, it has undeniably left you ill equipped to handle the situation in which I believe you now find yourself. Society has decreed that the task of assisting you with this problem falls to me, as your elder brother, distasteful though I find it.”

Sherlock spun to face him but couldn’t quite meet his brother’s eyes as he ground out, “Please tell me you’re not offering what I think you’re offering.”

“No, no, of course not.” Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. “I am merely offering to arrange an introduction with a very discreet acquaintance who would be able to provide a certain measure of physical _relaxation_. We employ several people who, in addition to their regular duties, perform such a function when absolute discretion is required. I can make the necessary arrangements, should you desire.”

For a full minute (sixty three seconds, to be precise), Sherlock was unable to form a coherent response. Then, “Get out” was the best he could manage. He turned his back again and gripped the mantel to hide the shaking in his hands. Mycroft’s suggestion was absurd. And insulting. And infuriating, utterly infuriating. Like most of his offers, this was completely out of line and wholly unwanted. With a last smirk, Mycroft left. 

Sherlock remained standing like that, with his back to the door, until he heard Mycroft's carefully measured steps go down the stairs and out the front door, then he flopped dramatically down on the sofa. John was gone, again. Well, to be more accurate, he had never returned. But now he was really gone, on the other side of the world. For all purposes that mattered, he was completely out of reach. Did it matter? Why did it matter? Of course it didn't matter. John's whereabouts had absolutely no effect on Sherlock's ability to think. It couldn't. That would be absurd. Observing, deducing, thinking, that was all that mattered. Everything else was just transport. 

It would be inconvenient, naturally. He had allowed himself to fall into the reprehensible habit of relying too much on another person for minor material matters. Procuring food, paying the bills, personal defence, and other things that didn't really matter. His sexual fascination with John was something that would, of course, fade without John's presence to remind him of his poor judgment. When John returned, the whole matter would have been forgotten and things could return to the way they had been. 

The idea that John might not return was not worth considering. Of course John would come back. He had to. That was all there was to it. 

His recent attraction to John was exactly as he had told Mycroft: purely physical. Sherlock was a sociopath. He knew it, Mycroft knew it, John knew it, everyone knew it. As a sociopath, he was incapable of forming any deep emotional attachments. Therefore, this obsession with John Watson was purely physical. It was based entirely on the reactions of his body to John's considerable physical attractions, such as the breadth of his shoulders _(signalling an ability to provide physical protection)_ , the squareness of his jaw _(indicating high levels of testosterone)_ , the agility of his fingers _(suggesting skill with manual stimulation)_ , the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed _(meaning... what?)_. 

That last bit was completely irrational. Clearly, his brain was no longer working properly. Perhaps Mycroft had been right, though it pained him to admit it. This obsession with John had distracted him from his work. In the week prior to that last, disastrous experiment, Sherlock had made almost no progress on determining the connection between the anomalies presented by the data. He needed to focus. He needed to think. 

Despite his resolutions, however, his mind refused to settle. Thoughts swirled round and round, mixing and coming together again in wholly different configurations, like a child’s toy blocks. Had someone paid off radio stations to make sure _Equinox_ by the Musgrave Five was played frequently, despite being so terrible? Why was Karolinski still sleeping in the warehouse? Did he have nowhere else to go, or had he been expecting more activity there? Whom had he been meeting in Kevin’s flat? What happened to the contents of the empty cases in the warehouse? Why was everyone avoiding Earl’s Court? Why was the thought of Kevin’s mouth so off-putting, but the memory of John’s mouth was still enough to cause an increase in pulse rate and heightened sensitivity in particular areas of anatomy? No, that was irrelevant. _Think. Think think think_. 

Russians who weren’t Russians. Strippers from Blackwall with Russian mafia tattoos. An invisible assailant on a rooftop in Earl’s Court. Coded instructions sung on the radio for anyone to hear. Dozens of text messages with no clear pattern to the nonsense. Large rifles in cases where they had no business being used. It didn’t make sense. He felt like he was chasing shadows through a maze that kept shifting beneath his feet. 

His mind flashed to the small bag of white powder concealed inside the skull, but John wouldn’t like it. Not that John’s opinion mattered, of course. Sherlock had quit the habit of his own accord, and John had nothing to do with his continued sobriety. Nothing at all. Instead, he grabbed his stash of nicotine patches and carefully applied one. This case didn’t yet merit the use of multiple patches. John had insisted that he only use multiple patches when he was absolutely out of other options. Something about poison in his blood. John was a very good doctor, which was the only reason Sherlock made any attempt to follow his advice on the matter. It was absolutely not because John looked so worried whenever he saw three or four patches on his flatmate’s arm. 

_Stop it. Think about the case. What did those text messages mean? What had Karolinski been doing in the flat in Blackwall? Where did the boxes that had been in the warehouse go? Why was Karolinski still sleeping down there after everything had been cleared out? Who was behind the lyrics of that awful song?_

Hours later, he had a bad crick in his neck but no better ideas about how it all fit together. An insistent beeping from his phone finally roused him enough to fetch it from the table. A text from Lestrade informed him, as he had expected, that any traces of the Russian in Kevin Philips’s flat were gone. Apart from small amounts of recreational drugs, the police had found nothing of interest. _Boring_. 

There was a card on the table, in the spot where John had left his computer. Printed across the front of the expensive card stock, in engraved ink, was the name _Daniel Taylor_ , with appropriate contact details. Mycroft must have left it, the card of one of those _discreet_ employees. Sherlock took some small measure of satisfaction in burning it.


	16. Chapter 16

Several days later, he was interrupted in his latest attempts to decipher the text messages by an insistent knocking on the front door. He waited for Mrs Hudson to answer it, but the landlady was apparently out. When the knocking continued to interrupt his concentration, he finally gave in and went to see who was being so loud so early in the morning. 

A woman was standing on the doorstep, late thirties to early forties, freckles all over her face, a mass of shocking red hair, colourful and bohemian clothes, and the obvious hand markings and posture of a low-level office secretary. She jumped at his abrupt appearance but appeared otherwise unfazed. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry – I was looking for John Watson. Is he at home?” She peered into the hallway past him, as if he were hiding John somehow. 

“No,” he replied brusquely and started to close the door. 

Her hand on the doorjamb stopped him. “You’re his detective, right? The one who can find out anything about anyone? He writes about you all the time. Do you think you’d be able to help me? See, I was actually coming to ask John’s advice on this really weird new job I’ve got, but if you’re as brilliant as John’s always saying then I suppose you could tell me if it’s legit and worth trying for. My name’s Jamie Wilson. John’s been a friend going all the way back to, gosh, primary school, I suppose. Can I come in?” During this torrent of words, punctuated by wild gestures and frequent finger jabs, Jamie Wilson had managed to work her way around Sherlock and into the entryway entirely, so there was really no point in denying her entry. 

“I don’t know if you read John’s blog at all, but he’s always going on about how you can figure out anything and help anybody. Do you know when he’s expected back? It’s just that I’ve got to be at work in an hour. Well, I say work, but that’s the problem, really. I’m not exactly sure what to call it, but I’ve got to be in the office in an hour. I hope you don’t mind if I come in, Mr Holmes. John talks about you on his blog all the time, and you must be really fantastic. This job I’ve got, the one I wanted to ask John about, is really bizarre and I’m starting to get a little spooked about the whole thing, but it’s good money, and I don’t want to quit unless I really have to, because I haven’t got anything else lined up at the moment. I’m sure you know what I mean, how hard it is to get a job if you’ve already left your old one. Well, maybe you don’t know, brilliant as you are. Is this your flat? It’s lovely. Mind if I have a seat?” As she spoke, she led the way up the stairs to the flat, and Sherlock found himself with no alternative but to follow her. He was completely unable to interrupt the stream of syllables or ask any questions. 

As soon as she had sat herself down on the sofa, the red-head looked up at him and said, much more calmly and deliberately, “Now, then, Mr Holmes. As I was saying, I have a very strange employer, and I want to know before I return to work whether it is actually safe to do so. I was going to ask John what he thought about it – he’s looked out for me before – but my timing must be off today. This actually works out just as well. I’ll admit that I had been hoping to meet you and ask your opinion when I came over here this morning. From what John’s said about you, if half of it is true, you’re pretty amazing.” 

Sherlock stared at her. This woman was nearly as good at bowling people over as he was. That flighty act on the stairs had been a very effective ploy to get into the flat. She must know, as he did, that most people will not physically evict a visitor posing no threat if that visitor is already actually in the room. Clever. He had to admit, despite himself, that he was intrigued. John had never mentioned this Jamie Wilson, so there was a chance that the whole thing was a ruse. Still…  
“Alright, Ms Wilson. A friend of John’s is a friend of mine.” He gave her his most charming smile. 

She was not impressed. “Don’t bother. I know you’re an arrogant sod. We don’t have to like each other, you know. I’ll tell you everything I know about this whole thing, you’ll tell me what’s really going, and we can both go on with our lives comfortably forgetting each other. Agreed?”

This time, his smile was genuine. It was pity John hadn’t brought this woman around earlier. He found he rather liked her blunt honesty. “Agreed. But how do I know that you’re not a deranged assassin sent by a psychotic criminal mastermind to gain access to my flat and kill me?”

“I’d have to be a daft assassin to wear shoes like these when going off to kill someone. And I keep a photo in my purse of me and John and Harry together, just before Harry went off to Uni.” As she spoke, she pulled out a faded photograph showing three teenagers. The two girls, Jamie and Harry, had their arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing at something. From the angle of her hips and the direction of her gaze, it was clear that Jamie had some sort of romantic inclination toward Harry Watson. Whether it was returned was less clear. 

Off to the side a bit, not quite looking at the camera, was a short boy with sandy brown hair and a bright grin. Even so young, his body showed clear signs of the broad shoulders and square jaw he would eventually develop. His face was unlined, carefree, happy, without any trace of the constant stress and trauma that would later etch such deep marks. As he stared at the young John Watson, Sherlock was struck by an absolutely illogical wish that he had known this boy in his own youth. Well, that was absurd. 

He handed the photo back to the woman on the sofa. “The photo could have been doctored; you could have looked up any details I’d ask you on the Net. However, as you say, those shoes are utterly impractical and would hamper mobility far too much to be worn by anyone with an aim to cause physical damage. So – what exactly is the nature of your problem? And try to be specific. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”

Jamie laughed at him, clearly not put out by his rudeness. “Well, I’d been working as a secretary for a solicitor’s firm for the past couple of years. The pay was awful, but the hours were good and the other people in the office were easy to get on with. Then, last week, my flatmate tells me she’s found a posting online that I ought to be interested in. It’s a listing for a research assistant at a place called the Gingers Advancement League. Some sort of public relations firm, but they only worked for red-haired clients. Said they were looking for someone with red hair and basic office skills to help them with research that might help their clients. From what I found out later, some bloke in America died and left all his money to starting this group, to ‘improve the image and options of red-headed persons throughout the world.’ At least, that’s what it says on their website.

“As you can see, I fit the bill pretty well for what they were after. I was curious about what it was all about, so I called and set up an interview. Took a half-day off my job at the solicitors to do so. Anyway, I get to the address they gave me, and it’s a pretty posh office on Fleet Street. Doorman downstairs, marble columns, all that sort of thing. Up in the hallway, there’s a couple of other people waiting around, all gingers. And I think it’s odd that there’s no lobby to wait in, they’ve got us out in the hall. 

“So they finally call me in. The office, there’s just the one room, is pretty empty, like they hadn’t finished moving in yet. Piles of boxes and some camp chairs, and that’s about it. There’s two blokes sitting there, Mr Ross and Mr Spaulding, and they’ve both got red hair, of course. First, they asked the usual questions about my CV and availability. It was an evening job, so I’d only have to cut back my hours at the solicitors by a bit, and I’d be getting a whole extra paycheque. The pay they mentioned was more than twice what I’d been getting at the solicitors’. And then I’m hired. Just like that. They didn’t even talk to the rest of the people waiting in the hall. I’m to report to the office the next day at 5 and do my research on different benefits of having red hair, all to be made into an article and published in a magazine. 

“I went in the next evening and they had a desk and computer all set up and the boxes cleared out. Mr Ross, he was the younger of the two, was waiting there for me. He got me all set up with email passcodes and internet service and explained what I was to do. Then he said he’d got some kind of long meeting to attend and not to expect him back that night. And I didn’t see another person in the office until I left at ten. It was a little spooky, being there all by myself, but the work was easy and kind of fun, too. So I went back again the next night. This time, there was nobody there even when I arrived. Just a note on my computer saying I’m to keep on where I’d left off the night before. 

“In all the days since then, Mr Holmes, I haven’t seen anyone in that office. There was a cheque on the desk when I came in on Friday, all filled out and proper, with a note thanking me and asking me to come back in on Monday. You can see why I’m starting to get a little freaked out now. Just because I can’t think of any reason why some creeper would want me in the office alone all night doesn’t mean there isn’t some crazy bastard out there getting his jollies by watching me type or something. So, before I go in tonight, I want to make sure I’m not getting myself into something stupid.”

She handed Sherlock photocopies of the original advertisement and her paycheque as she finished speaking. Both were printed, so there was no hope of learning anything from the handwriting. Without the original of the cheque, which was at the bank, he couldn’t determine anything about the type of paper used or the hand size of the person tearing it. The routing number and account information were all those printed on starter cheques for people who didn’t have an established account. The screen name and reply information of the online advertisement were only interesting in their absolute lack of revealing information. 

“Did you look up anything about this company before agreeing to work there?” he asked absently.

“I know everyone you deal with is a complete, dithering idiot, Mr Holmes, but I have got some common sense.” The sarcasm in her response made him look up. “I found their website online, customer reviews going back four years, mentions of their expansion to England in one of the business journals, photos of their headquarters in Pennsylvania, and LinkedIn pages for both of the blokes who interviewed me. I did my research.”

“Mmm…. Ms Wilson, would you mind if I accompanied you to the office tonight? I’d like to see what I can find by looking about.” 

She smiled up at him in triumph. “It would be my pleasure.”

In the cab on the way over to Fleet Street, Jamie Wilson stared at him, almost ogling. When he couldn’t ignore it any longer, Sherlock finally snapped, “What?”

“You’re not at all what I expected. From the way John talks about you, I thought you’d be some great posh prat, all brooding and cerebral. I thought I’d have to do a lot more to convince you to help me out.”

“Your situation is interesting. I like things that interest me. That’s all.”

“So happy I could entertain you, Mr Holmes. It’s always been a dream of mine to catch the interest of the most brilliant detective in the world. Such genius, and all devoted to me!”

Again, with the sarcasm. He looked at her, then said, “You’ve known John since primary school, but you’ve kept up the acquaintance since then, which means you were either very close friends or you didn’t have many other friends. Judging by your clothes and irritating demeanour, I’d say it was the latter, at least on your part. You were attracted to his sister Harry; probably the reason you befriended John in the first place. 

“Despite your age and obvious intelligence, you still work at entry-level office jobs. You don’t have poor work habits: you were insistent upon being punctual for the job this evening, and the signs of squinting at a computer screen and the wear on the undersides of your cuffs speak to diligence while in the office. Therefore, it must be your talent for angering your supervisors that has prevented you from rising any higher. 

“The shoes you’re wearing are a very expensive brand, but you’ve had them resoled: you don’t have money to spend on clothes, but you still want to look nice. Despite being the only person in your office, you wore shoes that will considerably hamper your mobility in an effort to impress someone in particular. Not me, I’m not really your type. You’ve come straight from your other job, but you haven’t got enough space in your bag to hold your supper, at least not the size supper you’re clearly accustomed to eating, so you intend to go out. You’ve worn those shoes in hopes of running into someone, someone you want to attract. All the drivers on the Fleet Street lines are men and they rotate irregularly, so the only person you could reasonably hope to run into with the possibility of attraction would be someone at a dining establishment near your office, then. You couldn’t walk very far in those shoes, anyway.”

When he finished, she stared at him for a moment, and he waited for the inevitable recoil. John had been the only one ever who hadn’t been thoroughly repulsed by his deductions. She didn’t pull away, though, or flinch. She laughed. At Sherlock’s obvious bemusement, she just laughed harder. “Oh, god, John warned me about that. I thought he was kidding! That was quite a thrill, being on the receiving end of all that brilliance! If you’re not careful, _Mr Holmes_ , you’ll make me play for the other team!” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, still chuckling. “You were a bit off, though. I met John long before he introduced me to Harry. I’d just transferred to his school because my mum got a job change. There were some kids teasing me about being ginger and not having a soul, just stupid playground stuff. And here comes John like Sir Galahad, rushing to defend my honour. We both got demerits for fighting, but no one bothered me after that. He was already something of a hero on the rugby team. All the other girls in our year were jealous.” She winked at him. “It wasn’t until sixth year that I realised I was carrying a torch for his sister. She was too old for me then, of course. And John kind of panicked when I told him. Said I was too nice to get pulled apart by Hurricane Harry. He was right, or course. Didn’t stop me from sleeping with her once or twice, but the sex wasn’t worth it.”

Sherlock could think of no intelligent reply to all that. This friend of John’s was very odd indeed.

The exterior of the building was just as posh as described. Although the doorman was initially reluctant to let Sherlock enter after hours, a stolen Detective Inspector’s badge worked wonders in gaining him access. Jamie didn’t bat an eye when she saw what he had done. 

The third-floor office was just a single room. A small desk of cheap, pre-fab wood and a plain black chair looked entirely out of place surrounded by thick, red carpet and heavy, velvet drapes. Even the wallpaper looked expensive. The desktop computer was at least five years obsolete, with a software system even older. Indentations in the carpet showed where other furniture had been sitting for a very long time, but there was no sign of another desk having been in the room within the past few weeks. Odd. Why rent an office space for just one person? Why go to the trouble of sending in another worker if there were no arrangements for anyone else to occupy this space?

He checked very carefully in the all the corners, along the sill of the single window, around the doorframe, behind the electric sockets, and anywhere else he could imagine a hidden camera. Experience with Mycroft had given him extensive knowledge of where one could hide recording devices. There was nothing he could find. 

Jamie Wilson had turned on the computer and started working while he searched. He watched her for a minute before asking, “What exactly do your duties here entail, Ms Wilson?”

“You can call me, Jamie, y’know. I’m to look through all these health journals and psychiatry magazines and try to find any references to gingers. Doesn’t matter if the story is about gingers or written by gingers. The bloke running this show just wants some sort of proof that gingers are out there, making a name for themselves. And then I record anything I find and email the particulars to the office in America. Sounds daft, if you ask me. Part of the reason why I thought this whole set-up was a bit dodgy.”

Sherlock stepped back to consider that. Then he considered the woman before him, with her wildly colourful blouse, daringly short skirt, ridiculous shoes, and outrageous hair, as out of place in this staid office building as the old computer and cheap desk. “Of course it’s daft. The assignment is ludicrous – anyone could do it. But they hired you. Why? It’s certainly not your professional appearance. You dress like a runaway from a travelling carnival. If you had any specially marketable skills, you wouldn’t be working as a solicitor’s assistant secretary. But they hired you without bothering to interview the other candidates. The notice online would almost seem to have been written to fit your particular tastes. Why go to such trouble to have you working here? 

“It can’t be about you in particular; you’ve got nothing special to offer. No, it must be something else your employers hope to gain by having you here. There are no hidden cameras that I can find, but even hidden cameras wouldn’t explain much. After all, what could someone want with watching you work? You’re not particularly attractive or likely to inspire erotic stimulation. You don’t have access to any important information that you’d be likely to reveal unconsciously while working. Whoever set this up has to be after something else.”

She batted her eyes at him and pretended to fan herself. “Oh, stop, you. I’m blushing! You sure know how to charm a lady, Mr Holmes.”

He actually laughed aloud at that. “Call me Sherlock. Now, then, Jamie, where did your flatmate find the advertisement?”

“It was on one of those Help-Wanted websites. She said she’d been looking for tech jobs for herself when she stumbled across it.”

“And I assume she was not gifted with hair like yours?”

“Nope, she’s boring and blonde. One of those Nordic types, you know. All blue eyes and long legs. I fancied her quite a bit when I first moved in, not that I ever let on. Somehow I don’t think I’m quite her type, if you know what I mean.”

“Have you known each other long?”

“Not really. I moved in about six months ago. Had a falling-out with the landlady at my last place, if you can imagine. Anya didn’t really seem too keen on the idea of having a flat-share, but she needed the money for rent.”

“Without a job, it’s no wonder she needed money.”

“Oh, she’s got a job. Something in tech support.”

“Then why was she looking through the help wanted ads?”

“Dunno. Maybe she wanted a better one. Or one that paid more.”

“Mmm. Possible. Unlikely. Stay here and go on with your evening as if nothing’s changed.”

“Okay,” she said and turned back to the computer.

Sherlock paused with his hand on the door. “That’s it? ‘Okay?’ You’re very accepting.”

“Well, it’s obvious, innit?” she replied without looking up from the screen. “You think Anya is involved in all this somehow, so you’re off to talk to her, maybe even get a look at the flat somehow. You must have got the address when you lifted my wallet out of my handbag while we were in the cab. I got it back, by the way. And you think whoever’s in charge of this whole game might have a lurker watching the building to see if I leave, so you want me to stay here so’s not to give the alert. When you leave, I’m calling the police and letting ‘em know what you’re up to, though. I don’t fancy being a sitting duck just waiting here for someone to realise something’s going on. I think I’ll call that Detective Inspector Lestrade, seeing as how he was so kind as to write his mobile number on the back of his card and all. Oh, don’t look at me like that – I picked your pocket, too. Would you like your billfold back, Sherlock?” 

He tried very hard to glare at her as she demurely laid it on the desk. Tried.


	17. Chapter 17

_21 Nightingale Vale, Greenwich. Don’t be obvious. SH_

Lestrade pulled up, without the lights or sirens, outside the building in question about twenty minutes into Sherlock’s vigil. “Why are you giving out my private number, Sherlock? Woman just called me and said _you_ wanted a plainclothes guard outside her office. And reminded me to feed her fish when we got through rummaging around in her knickers drawer. What the hell is going on?”

“The woman in that corner flat on the third floor is involved in a group trading in weapons, drugs, or black-market human organs. You need to arrest her before she realises that she’s being watched.”

The reaction to this announcement was not quite what Sherlock had been expecting. Lestrade showed no inclination to spring into action, instead crossing his arms and rather decidedly not moving his feet. “Have you got any actual evidence this time, Sherlock? You know I can’t just go breaking into someone’s place and arresting them just because you say so. And you haven’t quite been at the top of your game recently.”

“What _exactly_ are you implying?” Sherlock asked in a dangerous tone. Lestrade was not one to be intimidated. 

“Chasing ghosts on rooftops, knocking on people’s doors at ungodly hours of the morning, sending me out to question some poor bugger in Blackwall with nothing to show for it. You’re off your game, somehow. There wasn’t even anything illegal in that warehouse apart from Karolinski. And I’m still not convinced that you’ve uncovered a secret ring of Russian mafia smugglers operating in London. Now you tell me, why should I believe you and interrupt this woman’s evening? What are you saying I’m going to find up there?”

There was a brief staring match before Sherlock spun around and stalked toward the building, with Lestrade close upon his heels. “Sherlock, wait! What the hell are you doing? You can’t just walk into this woman’s flat. And I won’t cover up any more housebreaking you do!”

“As a private citizen with no connection to the police, I am free to speak with whomever I choose. Once again, I’ll step in to cover your inadequacies.”

“Sherlock – “

“I’m going to speak to her, nothing more. Nothing that would offend your delicate sensibilities. I’ll have your evidence inside a minute.”

“Fine, do whatever you want. Clearly, nothing I say is going to change that. I’ll wait out here if you don’t mind. I’d rather not be around when you start terrorizing people again.” True to his word, Lestrade got back in his car and sat there with every appearance of being immovable. 

Without a backward glance, Sherlock went in by himself. While in the lift, he considered his options for getting into the flat. It was obvious that the roommate was complicit in whatever was going on to get Jamie Wilson out of the flat. It may have nothing to do with the warehouse and the weapons anomalies, but anyone who had taken that much trouble was bound to be involved in something illegal. Briefly, he considered borrowing Jamie’s ploy of obfuscating with words, but a woman involved in something illegal was less likely to take to be pliable under such an assault. Claiming to be from the police (with Lestrade’s newly pilfered ID) would startle the woman and cause panic. A friendly visit from a new neighbour would not be welcomed in the current circumstances. For just a moment, he wished John was there to help him. John, with his unassuming appearance and easy charm, did not intimidate people the way Sherlock did. He had a much easier time winning over women. 

Out of sheer curiosity, he tried the handle of the door at the end of the hall. It was open. This woman was either extraordinarily stupid, or she was expecting many more visitors this evening. The strident guitar chords of a group of men trying very hard to sound angry while singing in Russian masked the sound of his entrance. Definitely a case of being extraordinarily stupid.

He was in a small, shabby sitting room with two doors, must be bedrooms, on the left. Through a narrow doorway on the right, he could see the edge of a cramped dining room and kitchen. It was clearly the home of two women, as evidenced by the colour-matching throw pillows and worn area rugs and the lingering traces of a woman’s flowery perfume. There was no sign of anyone else at the moment, so Anya must be either in her bedroom or around the corner in the kitchen. Any noises she might be making were also covered by the pounding bass. He had just begun to hope he would be able to find what he needed without being detected when a voice called out from the hidden kitchen, _“Misha? Eto vei?”_ So much for that plan.

A blonde woman appeared in the doorway, a large frying pan clutched in her hand with studied casualness and her other hand stiffly held behind her back. At the sight of the stranger, she moved into a defensive position, eyes narrowed. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she demanded, the words quite clear despite her heavy Moscow accent.

“Yeah, hi, sorry about that. I knocked, but I guess no one heard. My name’s John. I’m Jamie’s friend. She’s turned her ankle pretty badly and asked me if she could kip at my place for tonight. Um, she asked if I could swing round and pick up some of her things. You’re Anya, right?” 

She peered at him, clearly not falling for the act yet. “She is going to hospital now?”

“No, no, she’s not as bad as all that. Just a sprain – she’ll be all right. Nothing broken, thank the Good Lord, but she’ll be in a brace for a couple of days. It was probably those shoes she was wearing. You know the ones, look like she’s got a couple of staircases strapped to her feet? She said she didn’t feel like spending the whole night waiting around in the A&E. Told me off for trying to take her there. Said what good was having a doctor for a friend if I couldn’t even take care of a little thing like a sprain.” He chuckled and gave her a cheeky grin. “You know how she gets. So, anyway, I’m just here to pick up a few of her things for the night. I won’t be a mo.” 

“You are John the doctor? Harry’s brother?” Her accent was very thick but rather uneven, as if she forgot about it sometimes. Must be faking it. Underneath, he could hear that her vowels sounded distinctly Devon.

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. Though, I prefer to think of Harry as my sister rather than the other way round, if you know what I mean.” He winked, and she relaxed marginally. 

“You are taller than I thought,” she said as she moved slowly toward the second door on the left. “Jamie’s room is here. I do not know where she keeps her things. You must be quick. I have a friend coming soon.”

Now that he was farther in the room, Sherlock could clearly see the small table in the dining room. It was covered in stacks of money. With the distance and angle, he couldn’t make out currencies, but it was clearly a combination of roubles and American dollars, with a few pounds in the corner. Anya was still watching him suspiciously, so he made a show of going into Jamie’s bedroom and opening her wardrobe. 

Anya’s mobile rang, and she went back into the kitchen to answer. _“Da?”_ She lowered her voice dropped the fake Moscow accent to mumble into the mouthpiece; he could just barely make out, “”Yeah, most of it. Just waiting on one more pollen drop. I tell ya, the Queen had better be happy with this. I don’t think I can do it again. Some bloke walked in, friend of Jamie’s, and I nearly jumped out of me skin. … Yeah, ok, just hurry up. I don’t like having it all sitting around here. … No, Misha should be on his way. Rang to say he was leaving about half an hour ago. … Ok, sure. God, but I’ll be glad when my part’s done. … Yeah, I will. … No, alright, I got it. Bye.” 

Hastily, Sherlock threw a random assortment of garments into a large, beaded and feathered handbag. The loose blouse Anya was wearing had done nothing to conceal the outline of a handgun tucked into the waistband of her sweatpants. As he was well aware, an untrained, nervous gunman is the most dangerous kind. He made plenty of noise tromping through the sitting room. “I’ll just let myself out, then. Ta!”

He sent Lestrade a text from the hallway. _Anya Karjavin. Stacks of currency. Dollars and roubles. Another drop-off of cash on the way. Carrying gun. Still think I’m off my game? SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anya says, "Misha? Is it you?" Please correct my Russian if it's wrong.


	18. Chapter 18

By the time he got back outside, Lestrade was already on the radio calling for armed back-up. “An eyewitness saw the gun, that’s how I know. Did you check for a permit? … Right, well there’s another one on the way, don’t know if this one is armed or not. Try not to spook him. This might be part of a bigger gang, I don’t know yet. Yeah, got it …”

Sherlock didn’t bother sticking around to hear the rest. He would go to the Yard in time to hear her questioned, but there was nothing else to learn here at the moment. Instead, he headed for the nearest Tube station. He needed to find Doctor Bell again. The crush of people rushing home from work was just starting to ease up, leaving him a little breathing space. Of course, there was no John to be pressed against this time, so it really didn’t matter.

At the third station he tried, Sherlock heard the sounds of an Albinoni concerto drifting above the crowd surging for the door. There was only one man who would play an obscure oboe piece by an obscure Italian composer in the London Tube. Doctor Bell smiled when he heard Sherlock’s approach but kept playing through the piece. For just a minute, Sherlock was content just to stand there and let the music wash over him, the carefully structured progressions mixing seamlessly with the ornamentation and the performer’s elegant embellishments. With a final trill, old man let the notes fade away and turned to face his old student.

“Sherlock Holmes, back to see me again. Things must be pretty bad if you’re coming to see me twice in one month. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I…” Oh, this was hard. “I may have…” From the look on Doctor Bell’s face, he was quite aware of what was causing Sherlock’s sudden inability to answer. Determinedly ignoring the old musician, Sherlock swallowed hard and continued, “I made a mistake. I missed something important. What do you know about bees?”

“I know they hurt if you step on ‘em. And I know they work bringing pollen to a queen to turn into honey. And I know they’re nasty little things if you make ‘em angry. And I know there’s been a lot of talk about bees going on in the last couple months. Now, you tell me: what do you know about bees, Sherlock?”

“Bees and pollen and queens are being used as some sort of a code. A woman mentioned bringing pollen to the queen this afternoon while in the middle of a business transaction. A member of the Russian mafia raved about pollen for the queen while delirious. A song giving coded directions to a rendezvous point referenced honey and was written by a woman with a Russian name that translates to Queen Bee. Even the graffiti used to send messages has had bees painted on it somewhere. Someone has set up a network to bring assault rifles into London and is using the metaphor of bees as a communication code for the operatives. You hear everything. What have you heard?”

“Hiding in plain sight like a gator in a swamp. Crafty. I think you may have met your match, Sherlock.”

“It’s not Moriarty; that’s been established.”

“I didn’t mean Moriarty. Did it ever occur to you that there could be more than one person with the wits to match against yours? You got to think past that ego of yours, Mister Holmes. And don’t you roll your eyes at me.”

Sherlock stopped doing exactly that. How had the blind man known? “But what have you heard?”

“Well, I hear more about it down on the Piccadilly Line, near Earl’s Court. There were some mutterings going on in the Greenwich station this afternoon, but it was hours ago when that nice singer gal got off her shift there and had coffee with me. I used to hear talk of bees when I played near Canary Wharf, but that’s been pretty quiet for a couple of weeks now. You understand this isn’t an exact science, Sherlock. I don’t know how much you’re going to get by hoping one old man happens to be in the right place at exactly the right time.”

“False modesty, Doctor Bell. You hear every whisper and every tiptoe around here. And I know you have at least half of the other buskers keeping you informed about what they hear. You’re far more reliable than the idiots at Scotland Yard.”

The old man laughed and turned to put away his oboe. In its place, he pulled out a fairly accurate reproduction of a 15th century lute. It looked rather incongruous cradled in the wrinkled ebony skin beside the shiny medical alert bracelet. “You better be careful, Sherlock, or Doctor Watson’s going to get mighty jealous! Where is the good doctor tonight? It’s awful late for him to be working.”

“John is… He left. Went to New Zealand to see a friend. With his old girlfriend.” Why had he added that last bit? That wasn’t relevant.

“Aw, Sherlock… You said something, didn’t you? You drove him away. Couldn’t even see what was right in front of your face, son. I told you to listen to the silence. You ignored what he wasn’t telling you. It’s a crying shame, too. John seemed like a damn fine man. Well, I sure hope you can make it right with him. Seemed to me that you’d met your match in John Watson more than you ever did with that Moriarty fella.” He began playing then, a complicated courante dance, giving Sherlock no opportunity to reply or ask what he meant. Clearly, the old man wasn’t going to say any more on the subject, so Sherlock walked off, the three and two hemiola pattern of the rhythm echoing past him down the tunnel.


	19. Chapter 19

He was still absently humming the courante under his breath when he finally got back to his flat. However, the noise he was making still didn’t mask the sound of a female voice engaged in a very involved conversation.

“Oh, come on! I promise I won’t tell anyone. He’ll never even know where I got my info. … You’re being pretty ridiculous about this whole matter. Why are you so hung up on it? … Don’t try to deflect. I’m not a sex maniac; I’m just curious. Is Sherlock Holmes a boxers man or a briefs man? … Of course it’s important. You can tell a lot about a person by what sort of knickers they wear. This could be vital. … Fine, then. If you won’t tell me, I’ll just have to have a look for myself. But don’t say I didn’t – Oh, hello, Sherlock!” Looking completely unabashed, Jamie Wilson turned from her argument when he walked in the door.

“You do know the skull won’t actually answer, right? No larynx, no diaphragm, none of the necessary physical components for speech.”

She continued to cradle the skull in her hands like a long-lost friend. “Says you. We were having a very nice discussion before he decided to be a complete prude about a perfectly normal question. It’s not like he doesn’t know the answer.” Jamie gave the skull an arch look, but it continued to grin up at her.

Sherlock decided to ignore Jamie’s obvious signs of mental illness. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, your housekeeper let me in. Told her I was John’s old schoolmate. Sweet old lady. Though, to be honest, I’d fire her if I were you.” She glanced pointedly around at the clutter and mess.

“She’s the landlady, not the housekeeper,” he replied automatically. “But that doesn’t answer the question. _Why_ are you here?”

“Couldn’t very well go back to my place, could I? Nice fellow called Lestrade told me I ought to kip at your flat, since mine is now a crime scene. But why’d you bring my gym bag over if you didn’t know I was going to be here? Do you always take souvenirs from crime scenes?”

Sherlock belatedly realised that he was still carrying the ridiculous bag he had grabbed from Jamie’s flat. Some of the feathers had got a bit crushed on the Tube. He’d been so absorbed in Doctor Bell’s comments about John that he hadn’t even remembered the garish thing hanging from his arm. “No. I told your flatmate that I was John, sent over for your effects after you’d sprained your ankle. Must have forgotten I was carrying it. Do you really take this to the gym?” he asked as he traded Jamie the bag for the skull.

“Sure. No one’s ever desperate enough to lift it. You must be pretty out of it if you didn’t notice you were carrying this thing around. What’d you grab for me?” She rummaged through the contents of the bag, pulling out a pair of lacey, orange knickers, seventeen socks, a hair bow, two swimming costumes, a feather boa, and a single purple trainer. “Ah, I see. Got quite an evening planned, haven’t we?”

“I had no intention of you staying the night here and actually using this. I still have no intention of allowing you to sleep here. I need to work on several problems, and you’ll be in the way. Get out.”

“Nope. You’re the reason my flat is currently uninhabitable, so you get the honour of hosting me for the night. Where’s John, by the way? I’d’ve thought he’d be home from work by now.”

“New Zealand.”

“New Zealand? What the hell is he doing in New Zealand? He didn’t even tell me he was planning a holiday. Oh, well. I guess John won’t mind if I sleep in his bed, then.”

Sherlock was about to protest that _he_ hadn’t been the one conducting illegal business transactions in the kitchen, but the idea of someone, anyone, else sleeping in John’s bed stopped him cold. “No. You’re not staying in John’s room. That wouldn’t be…”

She was already up the stairs. Clearly, anything he said to this woman was an absolute waste of time. With a sigh, he replaced the skull on the mantel and flopped back on the sofa. At this point, the best he could hope for was that Jamie would stay upstairs and he’d be able to ignore her. Resolutely, he turned his thoughts back to considering what Doctor Bell had told him.

The police might not believe him, but there was now a concrete link between the piles of money Anya had been collecting and the cases of weapons that Karolinski had been guarding in the warehouse. The record company responsible for the coded directions in the song would have to be investigated. Codes within codes on top of codes. Whoever was running this operation was good. Very good. Altogether clever enough to be the work of Moriarty, but Moriarty had been more intent on making his presence known. This new player seemed intent on keeping everything absolutely secret. John had said as much, several weeks ago. John…

No. Stop thinking about John. Think about the codes. He had still not figured out the code used in the text messages. No doubt Anya’s phone records, whenever the police got around to reading them, would have more of the same nonsense messages sent and received. He looked up at the wall where he had tacked all the pertinent information for the case. All of the messages had been printed out and pasted in a rather haphazard row.

_You want new pears from a shipment Sheila found coming and going on Thursday but not morning._

_Do you have anything from outer space that is ready to lift off for a journey fifty years out without cases?_

Sherlock sighed. There was no pattern he could see. As he thought, his fingers tapped out the rhythm of the hemiola from the courante Doctor Bell had played in the Tube. It was a catchy little tune, really. Hemiolas were always tricky to play. _1-2-3/ 1-2-3/ 1-2/ 1-2/ 1-2_ Gradually, he became aware of what his fingers were doing. His eyes flickered to his hand and back to the messages. Was it possible? Something so obvious and fiendishly simple. It was –

Whatever he had been about to think was abruptly cut off by the sight of Jamie Wilson, female and in no way resembling John Watson, wearing pyjamas belonging to John Watson. John’s pyjamas had been bought by John and smelled like John and felt like John and should only ever be worn by John, not by this irritating, absurd, strange woman who was currently walking into the kitchen as if she had every right in the world to don the faded flannel trousers and worn t-shirt. It was wrong, wrong in every way possible. 

Something of his shock must have shown on his face because she paused, fork poised halfway between her mouth and the carton of Chinese take-away. “Problem? I would’ve ordered one for you, but John says you never eat during a case. I can share if you’re hungry, though.”

“Those are John’s clothes.”

“I did figure that much out for myself. Them being in John’s room was a bit of a clue, you know.”

“Why are you wearing John’s clothes?”

“You don’t seriously expect me to wear that stuff you brought, do you? Don’t worry – I won’t hurt anything. I’ve worn his clothes lots of times. ‘Course, that was back before he finished school and got too old for sleepovers. He won’t even notice.”

“You’ve… _slept_ with John?” Sherlock couldn’t quite keep the strangled note out of his voice, which Jamie noticed, of course. Irritating woman.

“Yeah, I used to stay at his place all the time. Once his parents realised I wasn’t a threat to their baby boy’s virtue, they even let us sleep in the same bed. I was more interested in threatening Harry, if you know what I mean.” She winked at him, but he was too stuck on one fact to share in the joke.

“You’ve slept in John’s bed? With John? While wearing John’s clothes?”

She cocked her head and peered at him. Sherlock had the uncomfortable sensation that this must be what other people felt when he was analysing and deducing. He looked away, unable to meet her all-too piercing gaze for very long.

“Oh, Sherlock, you’ve got it bad.”

“I’ve got what? I’m not ill, as far as I know.”

“You really don’t know, do you? Oh, that is too precious.”

“Know what?”

“Sherlock, you _fancy_ him. Big time. You’re completely, utterly, stark-raving mad for him. Have you told him?”

He turned away and walked into the kitchen. “Don’t be absurd.”

“So you did tell him, then. And he turned you down. I wonder why he did that – he’s just as arse over elbows for you. You must have really botched it when you told him. How’d you lay it out for him?”

Everything went very quiet in Sherlock’s mind. Jamie’s voice, traffic outside, Mrs Hudson’s cooking noises, everything faded into silence, replaced by a single, crystalline thought: _He’s just as arse over elbows for you._ Jamie’s words, ridiculous though the metaphor may be, filled his entire mind. He didn’t even realise that he had frozen in mid-step until an insistent pain in his midsection jolted him back to the present.

Jamie was poking one finger repeatedly at his stomach. “Sherlock. Earth to Sherlock. Come in, Sherlock Holmes…. Ah, there you are. You got a bit lost there for a minute. Let me guess, you didn’t know John fancied you. You pined away for him until you finally worked up the nerve to confess your secret eternal devotion to him. Being a complete and utter twat, you told him in the most insulting way possible, probably so that he didn’t even know what you were trying to tell him. So, instead of telling you of his own unrequited passions, John gets mad. What should have been all rose petals and rainbows and marathon shagging is instead John storming out so as to avoid punching you in your stupid, smarmy face.” She sat in the chair opposite and tucked her knees up, supper completely forgotten. “Come on. Dish. What’d you tell him?”

Sherlock sighed. Much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he still didn’t know precisely why John had left. Having known John for so long, Jamie Wilson might be able to provide him with a better understanding of his motivation. “I did not pine away for him. The data all indicated that we had similar physical interests. Since both of us were seeking relief, I proposed a mutually beneficial arrangement. I created a situation in which we were both aroused and told him that we should provide each other with an outlet. But he left. I’m still not sure why he left. I had already checked his response to various forms of stimulation, and his body reacted unmistakably. It should have been a simple, physical stimulation ending in a quick release of pressure. I haven’t seen him since, so I can’t even accurately judge the results of his end of the experiment. It’s very frustrating.”

Jamie’s expression was difficult to categorise. There was pity there, hints of disgust, amusement, which she was trying to conceal. “Sherlock Holmes, you are bloody stupid. _‘The experiment?’_ Honestly, what did you think was going to happen? You can’t treat sex like some bleeding experiment! Especially sex with John. He doesn’t even go in for one-night stands. With all your brilliant detectoring powers, how could you possibly miss that? And you treated him like a prostitute or a bloody blow-up sex doll. You must be the thickest bloke in London!”

He bristled. “There was no need for emotional involvement. I certainly don’t have any, and there was no sign on his part.”

“Again, you’re thick. Of course John didn’t show you anything. You pretty well shot him down before he even moved in here. _‘Married to my work.’_ Remember that? He was afraid you’d make him move out if he let you know what he really thought, and then he’d have to leave London altogether. He’s had some pretty rough times with other blokes, so he’s got used to hiding everything. But you should hear the way he keeps on about you when you’re not around. You’d have seen it if you’d ever been bothered to look. And don’t tell me it’s all just sex for you as well. ”

“Of course it is. Purely physical.” It was difficult to form a coherent response when his brain kept circling back to the idea that he had missed highly relevant signs from his flatmate. What were those signs? Would Jamie be willing to tell him what to look for in the future? And what did she mean by _other blokes_?

“Right. You may be fooling yourself, but you’re certainly not fooling anyone else. Why else would you have spent so long staring at his photograph earlier? You were awfully quick to pick up on the fact that we used to sleep together, even if it’s not in the way you thought. And why else would you care that I’m wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed now? Like I said, you’re mad for him.”

“Your first conclusion is erroneous. It’s only logical to assume that the rest of your conclusions are equally as incorrect and pointless. If you were correct and John had formed some sort of emotional attachment to me, he would not have run away the first time I, um, carried out the first stages of the physical level of the experiment. And he certainly would not have run away to the ends of the earth after that.”

“Did you actually kiss him as part of an experiment? And did you tell him it was an experiment?”

“I don’t see how that matters.”

“Of course it matters! You can’t just play with someone’s feelings like a couple of test tubes and microscopes. If you really wanted to kiss John, you should have told him so.”

“And then he wouldn’t have run away?”

“Are we talking about the same John Watson here? John’s never run from anything in his life. He probably left just so he wouldn’t use all that military training to knock you down and beat you. Or knock you down and shag you, which would have made him feel awful afterwards. Don’t you see? You offered him something he’d been wanting for months and then told him he was just part of an experiment. Of course he’d want some distance, some space to get his head clear.”

Sherlock thought about this for a moment. If what Jamie said was correct – and he was not entirely certain she was – then it would certainly explain John’s initial reaction in the kitchen. And if that was correct, then her other conclusions might also be valid. Emotional attachment. He had avoided love for so long that it was merely a theory to him, one he had never personally tested. Affection, certainly, he was familiar with that. He felt a vague sort of affection for Mummy and possibly for Mycroft. Respect was easy. He respected Lestrade. But John didn’t quite fall into either category.

John caused reactions that no one else ever had. Seeing John laugh made him happy; seeing John hurt made him want to hurt the person responsible. Seeing John wrapped in explosives made him do everything he possibly could to protect him. He wanted to know everything there was to know about John, even the things that bored him in other people. John’s presence was a constant chord underneath everything else he was thinking. John’s absence was a constant ache deep in his brain. In light of that realisation, the thought that he was only interested in John sexually was impossible. Logically, it followed that, however mad it seemed, Jamie spoke the truth. Sherlock felt something stronger than affection or respect for John.

“If, hypothetically speaking, I were to return John’s sentiments, how would I proceed from this point?”

“You’re asking me for dating advice? Haven’t you ever had a relationship before?”

“No. I’ve never seen a reason to pursue something like that.”

“You poor, daft, sad, little man.” Jamie shook her head ruefully. “The first thing you’ve got to do is to tell him about your great revelation. Now, after experimenting on him to get him into the sack, I don’t know that he hasn’t given up on you completely.”

“He’s in New Zealand, remember?. With his ex-girlfriend.”

“Ooh, ex-girlfriend, that’s not a good sign.” She thought for a moment. “Well, it could just be him trying to convince himself that he’s not just some experiment. John’s got his pride, you know. And you seem to have knocked it about pretty thoroughly. He didn’t even tell me he was planning to go, and he always tells me when he’s leaving, just so I can keep an eye on Harry. You’re going to have to do something pretty big to win him back, lover-boy. You could start by telling him you’re sorry.”

“He’s not here to be told.”

“That's a real problem there. Now, if only there was some sort of magical way to send messages to people all over the world using electricity and binary code and even great huge hunks of metal floating about in space! Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one in this flat?”

“I can’t just send him an email saying something like that. He’d think I’d gone completely soft.”

“Oh, my god. Men and their stupid pride.” Jamie stood abruptly and walked toward the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’m so glad I date women – we don’t have to compare penis sizes every time there’s an argument! If you don’t want my help, I’m going to bed. Hope you enjoy your little wallow in self-pity down here. Pleasant dreams.”

Sherlock snorted in disgust. He remembered why he didn’t deal with emotions – they were messy and irritating and entirely too distracting. He looked back up at the case notes tacked above his head. That was the important thing. The work was all that mattered, really. This entanglement with John, even if it was true, was distracting him from the case.

What had he realised before Jamie’s untimely interruption? Oh, yes. The key to the code used in the text messages was reminiscent of a hemiola: two and then three. Relevant words were interspersed with nonsense fillers.

_Three travelling luggage cases holding bananas are ready or not to buy a big ship_ became _Three cases ready to ship_

_The fluffy pinball queen is dancing but wants five apples and to warble or see slow versions of you_ became _The queen wants to see you_

He highlighted the relevant words in each text on the wall, then emailed the cipher key with the translations to Lestrade. The cipher would surely have been changed by now, but the police always got so put out of joint if they didn’t have all the information. It wasn’t as if they could do anything with it.

Quickly, he checked the forum on his website in the hope that something interesting would have been posted. No such luck. There was only one new message.

_Mr Holmes, my name is Victor Trevor and the police won’t listen to me. My girlfriend disappeared, and I think she must have been kidnapped. We were planning to go to Brighton last Tuesday, but she never came to the station. She’d been acting funny before then, but I thought she was just nervous about the trip. We’ve only been seeing each other for about two months, and I think maybe things were moving a little fast for her. But I’d never pressure her or anything. We were just going to celebrate her birthday. My mum’s got a cottage down there. I saw her Tuesday morning, but she said she had to pick up her things before coming to the station. And I haven’t seen her since then. The police say they can’t find her, but I know they’re just not looking. Anyway, her name is Holly Angel and she’s 26, she works at some shop down by Paddington selling ladies’ things, and she goes to my church, St. Thomas More. That’s where I met her, actually. I’m sending you a picture of her. I’m pretty sure something terrible has happened to her. She’s missed things before, but she’s never just not shown up for something. Please can you help me find her? ~~Victor Trevor_

No wonder she’d given up on the sap; he was completely wilted. With nothing else to occupy his time, he stared at an open email window. Perhaps he should send an email to John, just to find out whether he would be coming back. Would he have to find a new flat-share now? The thought was distasteful. But what to say? After nearly an hour of writing and then deleting messages, Sherlock finally pressed Send:

_John said to Jane I’m flat but sorry. Isn’t it time you said they are made of cheese worth three pickles far and away the more than enough to make balloons for me much higher than elephants and socks I like to let out to go on. Climbing down I tripped the wire miss the breaker you made. See how I fluttered to think just one pixel I poisoned rapidly may once and again be admitting crime in custodial care and love of plastic with faded curtains to you lot. So come burn down the home. SH_


	20. Chapter 20

In the morning, Sherlock left before Jamie was awake. He’d had an uncomfortable night after she left, pacing the sitting room and trying very hard to think about the various connections presented by the clues tacked to the wall. Eventually, his body gave up and forced his brain into a restless slumber on the sofa. Even asleep, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking, visions of tattoos and bees swirling around his unconscious mind and mixing with the hazy image of a compact, tanned, blonde body, splayed out naked and pointing accusing fingers. When he finally woke, it was with a persistent throbbing in his groin that required a very cold shower and determined recitation of Latin verbs to subside. It was too early to face any more conversations like the one he’d had the night before. If his calculations were correct, the police should have finished interrogating Anya. He headed to New Scotland Yard, hoping Lestrade would be there to let him see the tapes. Unfortunately, the first person he saw was not the Detective Inspector he’d hoped to see.

“Inspector Dimmock, what a pleasure so early in the morning. I see you’re settling in nicely around the station. I’d avoid any confrontations with Anderson over in Forensics if I were you, though. He doesn’t strike me as the type to share.”

“What are you on about, Holmes?”

“Oh, nothing. Give Sergeant Donovan my regards.”

“Don’t try to pretend you’ve worked anything out,” he sneered as he walked away. “You don’t scare me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Glad to see Sally’s been making some new friends. Her toiletries always smell so nice. What’s that scent in her shampoo? Strawberry Rain, is it?” 

Dimmock froze. “What are you implying?”

“Oh, nothing. Don’t mind me. I was just wondering – is sleeping with your subordinates a suspension or just a formal reprimand? I can never remember….”

Dimmock’s expression could curdle milk. “What do you want, Holmes?”

“A woman was brought in last night for an unlicensed firearm and possible connection to money laundering. I need to speak with her.”

“Not going to happen. She’s been moved to a safe house at her request. I can let you see the interview tapes, though.”

“Fine. Bring me everything you have on her. I’ll wait.” Dimmock hurried off, leaving Sherlock to wonder at the stupidity of people. Honestly, they spent so much time and energy trying to achieve something that really didn’t matter. Well, it hadn’t mattered before. He had to wonder if he would become as distracted and desperate as Sally Donovan seemed to be. If things worked out between them, would he tire of John as quickly as Sally tired of her lovers? He considered the possibility of becoming aroused by someone else. It didn’t seem likely.

With all the tools at his command, he conjured a mental image of every person he knew, imagining them naked or in mid-coitus. It was not a pleasant exercise. Molly’s timid cries, Lestrade’s greying chest hair, Sally’s grotesque voluptuousness, Anderson’s sneering face twisted in the throes of passion. Sherlock shuddered. Even thinking about such scenarios was unpleasant. Solely for the sake of comparison, he let his mind turn to speculating about John’s likely reactions.

He already had quite a bit of data from which to extrapolate: he knew the shape of John’s entire body, if not the specifics of colour and texture in the area that had been covered by his shorts after stripping in the kitchen. He knew that John’s respiratory rate increased while becoming much shallower when he was aroused. He knew that, when engorged, John’s genitals grew from twelve and half centimetres to a full length of just under twenty centimetres. He knew that the side of John’s neck, just below his ear, was sensitive to touch.

But there were so many other things he didn’t know about John’s body. Was the sparse, golden hair on his chest coarse or soft? Was every part of his neck sensitive? What other areas were sensitive? Would he be quiet when stimulated, his harsh, panting breath the only sound of his imminent orgasm? Or would he make loud, wanton, moaning noises as he sought friction, enough to startle Mrs Hudson and possibly Mrs Turner next door? All of these questions demanded answers; Sherlock needed to know exactly how John would sound and look and feel at every stage of arousal.

He was very glad the weather was still cool enough to warrant wearing his long coat, as it covered the otherwise obvious signs of his own arousal. Still, this line of mental investigation had proven illuminating. John was attractive; others were not. Therefore, it was logical to assume that his fascination with John would continue for the foreseeable future. The question of whether he would continue to be distracted by the idea of sex with John could only be addressed once John’s physical involvement in the process had eliminated the hypothetical nature of the query.

His conclusions were interrupted by the reappearance of Detective Inspector Dimmock, bearing a fairly thin folder and a disc. “Right. Here’s the file on her, with everything we were able to find. Her statement is in there, with the transcript of her interrogation, but there’s a video of it all in there as well. You can use one of the viewing rooms to watch it all, and then you can bloody well get out.”

“Thank you, Dimmock. It’s always so nice to see you.” Once he had the video playing on the monitor of the Spartan room, Sherlock ignored the written transcript. Intonation and body language always revealed so much. He supposed that Doctor Bell was right: people said things in the silences between words.

The blonde woman on the screen looked utterly defeated, dwarfed by the heavy, metal table and chairs surrounding her. At the Inspector’s prompting, she spoke in a quavering voice, all signs of a Russian accent gone, “My name is Anya Michelle Karjavin. I was born in Torridge, in Devon. My father was from Russia, came over to marry my mum. She’s from Torridge all her life.” She paused and drew a shuddering breath before continuing, “I came to London when I was twenty to find a job. I got work at Magnolia Imports. They wanted someone who could speak Russian to their suppliers in Moscow, and I learned Russian from my da. He used to speak it at the house when I was little, see? It wasn’t a great job, but it was better than I’d had in Torridge. So I went to school here and learned computers and Magnolia eventually moved me to tech support. I’m good with computers; I know how to fix them and how to make them speak to me. That’s where the trouble started, actually. I met this bloke at a bar, Ewan Thompson. He was really fit, really cool. And he chatted me up a bit. Asked me out for drinks a couple of times, got coffee with me. Everything was great.

“And then Ewan’s brother got in an awful lot of trouble. He asked for my help to get his brother out of the country. Seamus, that was his brother, had been caught up in a political rally and arrested. He hadn’t even been planning to go, he was just following some friends. And then the cops came and arrested everyone they could catch, and they caught Seamus. Ewan was really upset about it. Said they hadn’t even told his mum, that it would kill her to know her son had a criminal record. And Seamus was trying to marry this girl from Nice, but he’d never be allowed to sponsor her coming over with that on his file. I thought it was just awful.

“So I said I’d help. Ewan told me his brother was trying to get to France, and he’d marry his girl there. That way, she’d already be married to a British citizen and they’d have to let her move here. All they needed my help with was getting him out of the country in the first place. Because he’d been arrested for political activities, they were keeping a watch on the border for him. But he wasn’t connected in any way to my mum and da’s car, so they wouldn’t even stop me. It sounded easy enough. I drove him down to Cheriton, and he had a new passport making him out to be my brother, with Karjavin and everything. When we got to France, he told me to wait for him to go and get his girlfriend in Calais, so I hung about for a bit. Figured they were going to the Registry or whatever it’s called in France, to get their license and all. Then he comes back with this other person with him, all wrapped up in a muffler, so I couldn’t really see what she looked like. Had a lot of suitcases with her though; they almost didn’t fit in my car. Really heavy, too. This girl, Angelique I think was her name, didn’t know any English, and I don’t have any French, so we didn’t talk much on the way back to England. The two of them didn't do much talking either, but I guess I just thought they were trying to stay undercover and all. When we got back to Cheriton, they both hopped out and took all their suitcases and just said ‘Thanks’ and ‘Bye.’ I haven’t heard from either of them since, so I guess they made everything right with the local Registry and all. Anyway, Ewan would have told me if anything really bad had happened.” She looked up at the Inspectors interviewing her but apparently found no help there.

With a sigh, she continued, “Everything was ok for a bit, but a couple weeks ago, Ewan said there’d been a problem. Some of his mates had found out that we’d smuggled Seamus out of the country, and they was threatening to turn us both in. They said, if we didn’t want them to go to the police, I had to act as a drop point for someone they just called The Queen. They wanted to use my flat because it couldn’t be traced back to anyone they knew. I told them I couldn’t because I had a flat-share, and she wouldn’t like it if a whole troop of strangers came tramping through every night. But they said they’d take care of her. I was afraid they’d kill her, and I kind of like Jamie. Jamie Wilson, she’s my flatmate. And she’s a bit odd, yeah, but she pays her half of the rent on time and doesn’t turn up her music too loud or anything. But they said they wouldn’t hurt her, just get her out of the way.

“They made me set up a couple of websites first, for some stupid, daft company that wasn’t real. Something to do with gingers. And then I was to give Jamie an advert for a job looking to hire gingers. Jamie’s got really crazy hair, see? So I did all that, and then Jamie tells me she’s got an evening job and we should celebrate. We never did, though. Never got around to it. That’s when Ewan’s mates came round and told me I had to stay in the flat all day, waiting to meet people who would bring stacks of cash and leave it with me. Only they didn’t call it cash; they called it pollen, which I thought was a bit stupid, but they had guns, so I wasn’t going to argue. They gave me a gun as well and said I always had to keep it with me, but I didn’t like holding it.

“I did that a couple of times and nothing ever went wrong. And then tonight this bloke comes just walking into the flat and says he’s John, Jamie’s doctor friend. He takes some of her things and left again. I don’t think he was actually John, though. Jamie said once that John didn’t like being shorter than all the women he dated, and this was a great tall bloke. But nothing happened for a bit. Misha – that’s a code name and I don’t know his real name – came by and made his delivery and then there were police swarming all over and arresting us both. And that’s all, I guess,” she ended rather lamely.

The detectives questioned her for particulars, but Anya didn’t really know much more than she had already said. She’d never met anyone in the organisation except the few people dropping off money at her flat. The man who picked up the cash had never told her his name, just that he was sent by The Queen. Ewan Thompson, of course, was deeply involved in the whole scheme, but he was almost certainly using a code name as well. When questioned, Anya admitted that Seamus looked nothing at all like Ewan, being very tall and blonde rather than small and dark. She hadn’t thought it odd at the time because, “Well, I don’t look much like my brother. He’s got brown hair and all.”

When they had extracted everything they could from her, the Inspector in charge informed Anya that she would be allowed to leave on bail, and that someone had already come to post it for her. At the news that she was free, however, Anya looked utterly terrified. “Please, don’t make me go. They’ll kill me if they think I’ve talked to you. And they’ll know, somehow. I won’t make it ten steps. You can keep me here, can’t you? Put me in a jail cell or one of those safe houses or something? _Please,_ don’t send me back to them!” She was sobbing and clinging to the hard chair.

The rest of the video was just the police making arrangements to send her to a safe house. Sherlock turned it off. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the rest of the file. All of Anya’s statements checked out. A man had been arrested with her, but there was no connection prior to the raid that anyone could find. He had refused to speak since being brought in. 

Thinking in the dull, drab, little room was impossible; there was no skull except the one in Sherlock’s own head. And he needed to think. He returned the file to the desk sergeant, but there was no sign of Dimmock. Or Lestrade, for that matter. It seemed the entire police force was avoiding him after being proven wrong for doubting him last night. Well, so much the better. It was easier to think without being surrounded by such stupidity.

Vindication reminded him of Jamie, and he sent her a text with the latest developments. _Anya in protective custody. Ginger Advancement League a scam to keep you away. Don’t go back to your flat. Phone Lestrade for a safe house. SH_ Doubtless the people who had been making the drops last night would still be watching the flat. Jamie would have to stay elsewhere. And no way could she remain in Baker Street. Last night had been more than enough.

He wandered the streets of London for quite a while, considering all the ramifications of Anya’s statement. Whoever ‘Seamus’ turned out to be, he was already wanted for other crimes. That much was clear from his behaviour in the Chunnel. ‘Angelique’ could have been anyone. It wasn’t even certain that she was female, wrapped up as Anya had described. So far, Sherlock had only been considering London shipping lanes as possible channels for importing illegal goods, but it was clear that The Queen had worked out a system to bring in goods – and probably people – using the Eurostar. It would seem that that method was riskier, involving the participation of willing or particularly stupid outside parties. And, for all her skills with computers, Anya Karjavin was one of the stupidest people he had ever met, not excepting Anderson and Kevin Philips.

But, for all his work, he was no closer to finding the person responsible for pulling the strings of this hive of smugglers than when John left. The only people he had definitely found were not in a position to provide any concrete information about the upper levels of the organization. Any concrete evidence had only led them to the barest edge of the activities going on. He was missing something important, something really big, and he couldn’t afford any more distraction until he solved this case. Perhaps it was a good thing that John was in New Zealand.

Finally, Sherlock turned his steps toward Baker Street. Perhaps there was something in the map that he had missed. Or in one of the text messages. He still hadn’t fully analysed that sample of the oily residue that Lestrade had found on the bottom of the cases in the warehouse. Plan firmly in mind, he bounded up the steps to his flat. And stopped. And stared. John Watson stared back at him.


	21. Chapter 21

John seemed frozen in time, his hands stilled where he had been sorting through a pile of post on the table. Warily, Sherlock held his gaze, afraid to make any sudden moves for fear of startling John into leaving again. He drew in a deep breath, and another, trying to calm his racing heart. _Adrenaline,_ he thought absently. Fight or flight reflex when presented with a potential confrontation. Behind the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears, Sherlock could dimly hear Jamie and Doctor Bell and Mycroft, all telling him not to mess this up.

Finally, John broke the silence. “Sherlock,” he said quietly. His voice didn’t quite shake, but he had resumed his stiff military posture. His left hand was absolutely still. Clearly, he was feeling his own rush of adrenaline and uncertainty. Sherlock waited for him to continue, but John seemed to have run out of words. _(No suitcase visible, shoes off, computer plugged in on the table: John had returned approximately half an hour ago.)_

Sherlock tried to think of something to say. _John, I’m sorry. John, please don’t leave me again. John, you’re more than an experiment. John, I can’t function without you. John, I don’t think I’m really a sociopath, because I think I may actually be in love with you._ But all that came out was, “They’re not really Russians.”

John frowned. “What? Who isn’t Russian?”

“The smugglers. Bringing guns into London. They’re not really Russians. It’s a red herring, a ploy to distract us.” Oh, this was no good. Why did his brain have to stop functioning precisely when he needed it the most? John was turning away again.

“Oh. Right. Well, who is it really?” Despite his words, John was clearly not interested. He was already heading out onto the landing.

“I don’t know yet. I need more data. The gun oil residue and Karolinski’s clothes. We can have another look at them, see if they match up with any of that.” He gestured to the wall where everything else was tacked up, but John was gone. Again. His footsteps on the stairs were uneven. _(Lack of confrontation, direct danger passed: return of psychosomatic limp.)_

Sherlock slumped in his armchair. It was all wrong. He had ruined everything. How could he make John see what had changed? The skull grinned at him from the mantel, but offered no helpful suggestions. Jamie had left her lacy orange knickers draped jauntily over one empty eye socket. Overhead, he could hear John’s limping footsteps as he moved about his bedroom. Drawers opened and closed, the closet door opened but stayed open. Either he was unpacking from his trip, or he was packing everything to move out of the flat.

After only a few minutes _(not enough time to pack everything)_ , John came back down. “Sherlock, has someone been in my room? Things are all moved about from where I left them.”

“She said you wouldn’t mind. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen,” Sherlock replied, not quite paying attention. He was still focussed on the problem of convincing John to stay.

“Who wouldn’t listen? You had some woman sleep over while I was gone? And what’s that on your skull?”

“Jamie must have put them there after I left this morning. And she insisted on sleeping in your bed. Said she used to do it all the time.”

“Jamie Wilson? You invited _Jamie Wilson_ to stay here? I thought you two would hate each other on sight.”

“I didn’t invite her. She coerced Mrs Hudson into letting her in and then refused to leave. I was helping her with a case, and the police wouldn’t let her back into her flat.”

John stared at him in amazement. “You spent the night with Jamie Wilson, and you two didn’t kill each other?”

“No, we got on rather well, actually. Had a very nice … chat.” The memory of what had been discussed in that chat brought a rush of heat to Sherlock’s cheeks, which he hid by opening a book and pretending to read.

John muttered to himself, “Now I know the world is coming to an end.” He leaned over the sofa to look at all of Sherlock’s notes and reminders from the case. Since it appeared he had no immediate plans to move out or to force a confrontation, Sherlock allowed himself to relax a bit. Over the top of his book, he watched John read through everything on the wall. One hand reached up to rub idly at the back of his head, the other braced against the hideous wallpaper. After a few minutes of staring, he cocked his head slightly and leaned in closer. Without a word, he retrieved his laptop from the table. His gait was now entirely even.

What was he looking at? What had he noticed? Sherlock held his breath as John started up the computer. From where he was sitting, he couldn’t see exactly what John pulled up on the screen, but he had a fairly good guess. Slowly, John traced his finger over whatever he was reading on the screen in front of him, glancing up frequently to compare with what was on the wall. Finally, he turned back to his flatmate, who had lost all ability to breathe.

“Sherlock,” John said, “I had a very strange email waiting for me when I got back. Do you know anything about this?”

“Yes.”

“Did you write it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use a smuggler’s secret code system to write it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mean it?”

He had to close his eyes before breathing out, “Yes.”

“So: _John I’m sorry. You are worth far more to me than I let on. I miss you. I think I may be in_ –“

“Yes. Yes, yes, all that. Congratulations, you figured out the code. Impressive, considering your limited intellect. Didn’t strain yourself thinking too hard, did you?” Sherlock threw down the book and started pacing furiously around the room, unable to meet John’s eyes. There was nothing in the doctor’s voice to give away what he was thinking. John’s face would show everything. What if it showed anger? Or disgust? Or fear? Or any one of a hundred other emotions that ultimately spelled the end of Sherlock’s hope.

“Then, is that what was going on back when, uh, in the kitchen? But you said it was just –“

“I know what I said, John. I didn’t have all the data at that point. That’s why forming conclusions prematurely is such a dangerous thing. I twisted the facts to suit the theory rather than the theory to suit the facts. From what I had deduced up to that point, that was the correct course of action. I was missing key evidence.”

“Mm-hm. And what was the new evidence, then?”

“It was, well,” he stammered. _Why was this so difficult?_ “Your friend Jamie informed me of what I had been missing. Doctor Bell corroborated. In light of this new data, I was forced to re-evaluate my … interpretation of events.”

“Right. And what interpretation would that be, then?”

“Do I really have to spell it all out for you?”

“I think you do, yeah. Since my intellect is so limited and all.”

“Fine,” Sherlock spat. He flung himself lengthwise on the sofa and turned his face to the wall, still not meeting John’s eyes. “The physical attraction was obvious, easy to measure. Your reciprocating attraction was also easily verifiable. There are some benefits to male anatomy. Since that was the most identifiable motivator, I placed undue emphasis on it, ignoring or finding specious justifications for all other motivations. My desire to leave Karolinski’s hospital room was attributed to a subconscious premonition of personal threat rather than jealousy. I told myself I was willing to leave the scene of our assault in Earl’s Court because there was nothing more to be seen there, not because you were cold and obviously uncomfortable. Even when I played my violin, I convinced myself that I was choosing repertoire based on what would help me think rather than what would help you sleep. The idea that my desires were wholly sexual was pretty well put to rest when I realised that I have been unable to achieve any level of arousal from another partner, whether physical or imaginary. And this whole time you’ve been gone, I haven’t been able to focus on anything other than your absence. I’ve missed clues; I’ve ignored obvious patterns. I even started making false assumptions! I can’t _think_ , John. What am I if I can’t _think?_

“I was perfectly happy as a high-functioning sociopath before you came along. Now, I’ve got all these _emotional_ entanglements and illogical thoughts cluttering up my head and getting in the way of my Work. Why did you do this to me?” He jumped up and grabbed John by the shoulders, shaking him with all the frustration of the last few weeks.

John raised an eyebrow. And smirked. And chuckled a bit. “Is that your way of telling me that you’re madly in love with me? Not the most flattering confession I’ve ever heard, but I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from the World’s Only Consulting Detective. Only you could make something like this sound so bloody insulting.” He raised one hand to comb through the disarray of Sherlock’s hair. “At this point, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Sherlock had to close his eyes against the intensity of John’s gaze, so close. “Then Jamie was right.”

“Of course she was. She usually is. She won’t ever let me forget it, either.”

“And you are…?”

“Yeah. All that.”

“But Doctor Sawyer?”

“I broke it off with her. I was trying to get over you. Thought I didn’t have a chance, after what you said… in the kitchen. I wanted to make myself think about someone else. Someone nice and normal, who didn’t see me as an experiment. It didn’t work.”

John’s mouth was much too far away. Sherlock leaned down with the intent of pressing his lips to that particular corner that was still smirking, but John’s hand on his chest stopped him. “Sherlock, if we’re going to do this, it’s going to be for good. I’m not some case study you can run off and forget when you get bored. I’m not a puzzle for you to solve. And I’m definitely not a rent boy here to make you feel good whenever it’s convenient. You know that, right?”

Sherlock breathed in the scent of John’s skin and foreign shampoo and cheap airline soap before replying, “John, you are the only person I have ever met with the ability to distract me from my Work. You are also the only person I can’t predict and can’t figure out. I want to learn every part of you. I need to know what goes on in your mind. And I intend to spend the rest of my life peeling back every layer of you to find out what goes on underneath.”

John’s breath was coming more rapidly now, his hand fisting in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “I should find that disturbing. I really should.” He leaned up on his toes to close the gap.

It was tentative at first, the soft brush of lips against lips, but neither could hold back for long. With a low hum, Sherlock slid his hands down from John’s shoulders to map the contours of his back, tracing the trapezius, the deltoid, down to the latissimus dorsi and back up to play along the edge of the scapulae. John responded by taking Sherlock's lower lip between his own and biting, gently at first. When Sherlock tried to reciprocate, John took advantage of his parted lips to sweep his tongue in, seeking out every crevice and hidden secret. All of Sherlock's considerable powers of observation immediately shut down in the face of the invasion. Everything else faded away, his world narrowed to John's hands clutching his shoulders, John's lips yielding, John's hips pressing against his, John's breath coming out in rapid puffs of heat against his face. The slight rasp of stubbled cheeks drew his focus to the tanned face so close to his own. The insistent tugging of fingers in his hair made him hone in on the sensation of being pulled closer and tighter in to John's mouth. John was everything, and it wasn't enough. Sherlock needed more, but he wasn’t sure what else he needed or how to get it.

John was doing something with one hand, those nimble doctor’s fingers dancing a line down between them. Ah, he had unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt. Impressive, really, that he could manipulate all those tiny buttons without seeing them and while still maintaining the incredibly distracting rhythm of teeth and tongue and lips and… _oh!_ At the sudden assault of John’s hands on the sensitive skin of his chest, Sherlock found himself unable to complete a coherent thought. Every brush of fingers, every stroke of palms or flick of wrists sent lines of heat shooting through his body, adding to the molten core already forming in his groin. All his years of experience with his own skin hadn’t prepared Sherlock for the heightened sensitivity in places he had not known could be erogenous zones. The caress of a thumb across his clavicle made Sherlock’s knees shake; the slide of a palm across the external oblique to the rectus abdominus made Sherlock’s breath hitch. But it was the whisper of touch against the nerves clustered at his nipple that made him moan into John’s mouth and his entire body shudder.

Sherlock could feel John’s lips quirk against his as he repeated the move, sliding broad, calloused palms across the sensitive tissue. It was too much. It was not enough. He felt himself at a disadvantage, as John was still wearing his shirt. Tentatively, Sherlock tried to slide his hands in and find skin, but the doctor was wearing a t-shirt. No buttons. With the majority of his brain completely absorbed by John’s continued assault, Sherlock couldn’t figure out how to remove the offending garment, pulling futilely against the hem. John stopped and pulled away. Why did John stop? Sherlock opened his eyes to see what was wrong and was greeted by the sight of a tanned, scarred, perfectly formed torso being revealed as the shirt was lifted overhead and tossed aside.

He only had a moment to marvel, though, before John pressed in again, his lips latching on the pale throat this time, his hands slipping below the waistband of perfectly tailored trousers, his skin – _oh god his skin_ – hot and damp and perfect against Sherlock’s chest. Fingers made dexterous by hours of surgery slid delicately along the sharp hipbones displayed so prominently. This light touch made Sherlock buck his hips and let out a very undignified sort of groaning noise. With his head tipped back to allow John better access to the pulse leaping in his throat, pelvis thrust forward to invite more of the teasing fingers along the bone of his hip, his shirt flung open to allow John full access to the coil of nerves being gently massaged in his chest, Sherlock felt he understood something of how his violin must feel. His body was a finely-tuned instrument, being played with the skill of a virtuoso.

He wanted to reciprocate, to observe John’s reactions when his own defences were stripped away and he was left trembling and open. Sherlock regained enough control over his limbs to fumble open the button of John’s denims and slide them down to catch around his knees, baring the slightly faded boxer-briefs straining to contain the evidence of his excitement. Hesitantly, Sherlock raised one hand to trace the outline of the red fabric stretched against insistent flesh, feeling the heat radiating through the thin cotton. It was enough to make his mouth go dry. John took advantage of the momentary distraction to continue disrobing his flatmate. When Sherlock’s trousers slid off his hips, leaving him completely bare, John leaned back in surprise, saying, “Oh, god, Sherlock! Commando?”

The movement overbalanced him, and he fell back to land on the sofa, pulling Sherlock after to land in an untidy sprawl among the cushions. Their position was not entirely ideal, with legs dangling awkwardly off the end and heads pressed against the unyielding wall, but it did create the rather pleasant effect of pressing their groins tightly against each other. Sherlock whimpered when he felt the sudden friction sliding along hypersensitive skin. He rocked his hips forward, seeking more of the same, but John’s quiet laughter stilled him.

“Eager, Sherlock? Maybe we’d better adjust a bit before you go slamming my head through the wall. I don’t think Mrs Hudson would appreciate another hole in the paper.” He shifted to lie full-length along the sofa, each movement bringing new bits of him into contact with his desperately hungry flatmate. When they were both positioned more comfortably, John drew Sherlock down to meet his lips again. At the first slide of his erection against John’s, Sherlock groaned obscenely. Naturally, John noticed and repeated the move, thrusting his hips forward to rut against Sherlock.

But the fabric was still in the way. Sherlock reached down to push John’s pants off, but he got hung up on the elastic, trapped tightly against his stomach. Again, the feeling of John’s soft chuckles vibrated against his lips. One of John’s hands drifted down the long, pale chest to assist. The back of his knuckles just brushed against Sherlock’s frenulum, causing something like a small nuclear explosion behind his eyes. At the sound of the strangled cry, John drew back to lock eyes with Sherlock again. Slowly, he laced their fingers together, fitting both their hands around heated flesh, pressing silken skin together to feel the hard heat beneath. As he started to slide their joined hands along the lengths squeezed together so tightly, John stared avidly into his face. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes open, tried to watch John’s reactions, but the sensation was too much. There was so much data flowing into his mind simultaneously that he had to block some of it out.

However, the lack of sight only heightened his awareness of the sound of John’s breath against his face, the warmth of John’s chest under his fingertips, the smell of John’s body so close under his nose, the taste of John’s skin lingering on his tongue, the feel of fingers and palms and soft hard skin rubbing against his most sensitive parts. Everything built to a roaring crescendo in his head, driving out any other thought that might have intruded. When John leaned his head closer and began to suck and then to bite just at the spot where the neck met the shoulder, Sherlock felt the circuits of his brain begin to overload. But it was the firm scrape of John’s nails against the already peaked buds of his nipples that caused a total shut-down of his hard-drive. He may have screamed. He may have thrashed. He may have exploded into a million shining sparks and been reassembled in a slightly different pattern. He didn’t know. All he knew was the heat and blinding light and deafening roar as his world fractured and splintered and erupted. 

When the air stopped shimmering and he could breathe again, Sherlock opened his eyes to John’s face, just in front of him. The blue eyes were completely unfocused, staring with a glazed sort of relief in the general direction of the ceiling. Both of them were still breathing in short, harsh, panting breaths, lips so close that the air rushed between them from one pair of lungs to another. It was a strange sort of communion, but Sherlock thought that he rather liked it.

After a few moments, John seemed to collect himself and come back from whatever blissful place he’d been visiting. His eyes refocused and locked on to the brilliant blue orbs of his flatmate. He swallowed a bit nervously before saying, “God, watching you like that was the hottest thing I think I’ve ever seen. That was incredible. Did you… uh, I mean, I know you… well…”

“That was far more intense than anything I’ve been able to achieve the few times I tried it. I suppose the participation of another person adds an element of unpredictability that one cannot obtain alone. Well, that and the release of so much built-up tension. The hormones currently flooding our systems, prolactin and oxytocin and floods of dopamine are a very pleasant after-effect.”

John let his fingers play along each delicate rib, identifying more sensitive zones Sherlock hadn’t know he’d had, before carefully asking, “Are you telling me that was your first time having sex?”

“What did you expect, John? I told you when we first met that I had always thought of it all simply as transport. Aside from a few, inconvenient experiences when physical needs demanded to be met, mostly during adolescence, it’s been more convenient for me simply to ignore it. Mental activity was always more satisfying anyway. Well, until now, that is. What you just did, that was… that was good. Remarkable, even. I may understand now why people spend so much energy pursuing sex. On the whole, that was far more exciting than the most complicated case I’ve ever had, even Moriarty.” He blinked, amazed by this conclusion. “John, I think that was better than cocaine! The after-effects are decidedly more pleasant, even if the result is a bit… messier.”

The small pool of their combined ejaculations was cooling in the hollow of John’s stomach. Sherlock knew what his own semen tasted like, having determined that after his first nocturnal emission at age fourteen, but what did John taste like? Curious, he slid his finger through the puddle and raised it to his lips. Fluxuations in diet and hormone levels would, of course, cause the chemical makeup to vary somewhat, but he thought he could still detect a slightly different flavour. Interesting. A strangled whimpering noise stopped his further research. John was watching the movement of his lips and fingers and apparently seeing something he enjoyed very much, if the evidence nudging again at Sherlock’s belly was to be believed.

“I was under the impression that men required a certain window of respite before being able to ‘go again’ as it were.”

“Under normal circumstances, yeah. But, Sherlock, I think we’ve already established that there is nothing normal about you. Still, inspiring as you are, it’ll still be a bit before I’m up for another round. Sorry.”

“Mm. And how would you recommend we spend that time?”

“Uh, well, there’s the usual things: telly, shower, comparing notes on past experiences, awkward conversations. You know, that sort of thing.”

“None of those sound particularly appealing. I think I’d rather memorise the taste of every inch of your body, if you don’t mind.”

John’s answer was decidedly less coherent as Sherlock began doing exactly that, starting with the previously noted area just at the back of the jaw, below his ear. “Yeah, ok. That’d be, um, ok. Good.”

His explorations were interrupted by the insistent tones of his mobile, beeping rather intrusively from the pocket of his trousers. Sherlock was in favour of ignoring the obnoxious thing, but John stilled him with a gentle push to his shoulder. “That’s second time it’s gone off, now. Probably Lestrade.”

“I don’t remember it ringing before.”

“Yeah, well, you were a bit blissed at the time. Might want to check it, though. It’ll give me a chance to recover before Round Two.”

Grumbling, Sherlock reached down to where his trousers had been discarded in their frantic dance earlier and fished out the blinking device. _Murder-kidnapping. Your number in victim’s flat. Better come have a look. Lestrade_

The victim knew him somehow? No, that was unlikely. His mobile number was posted on the website. If this person had somehow known him, he would already have contacted Sherlock. Far more probable that the victim had intended to contact Sherlock, if the number was written out and left somewhere visible for the police. But if this person had been to the website and found the number, why had he or she not attempted to contact him via the forum? He didn’t recall anyone posting anything noteworthy recently. Perhaps it was that man who couldn’t make out that his girlfriend had dumped him. Interesting. Something else must have come up with that one. Sherlock was already up and halfway to the door when John’s hand stopped him.

“I don’t think you’ll get much detecting done looking like that. You’re liable to give Lestrade a stroke. Might want to clean up a bit.”

Sherlock glanced in the mirror. His hair was in wild disarray from John’s clutching fingers; his lips and cheeks were reddened where the scrape of John’s stubble had rubbed. Just at the base of his neck, a large bruise was quickly forming where John’s mouth had marked him. _And_ he was naked and still covered with traces of semen. He smirked at John. “I don’t know. Might be useful having Sergeant Donovan speechless.”

“No,” John positively growled. “You’ll not be prancing about in your skin where anyone else can see you.”

“Jealous, John?”

“A bit, yeah. Now go and clean up so we can look at dead bodies.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather a gruesome murder scene in this chapter, but I tried not to describe it in too much detail. Still, if blood does fiddly things to your insides, I'd recommend skipping ahead.

The flat in Holloway was swarming with police by the time they arrived. Sally Donovan’s sneering face was the first to greet them at the barricade. “Hello, Freak. Back so soon, Doctor Watson? I thought you’d finally got some sense and run away from him.”

John’s tight smile showed his anger, but all he said was, “Sergeant Donovan. Hello.”

As they stepped under the tape, Sherlock couldn’t resist the puckish urge to tilt his head just a bit to left while reaching down and back with his right hand to hold the warning cellophane barrier. His shirt collar shifted just enough to display the livid bruise already forming on his throat from John’s earlier attentions. Sally’s eyes immediately locked on to the red mark. “Oh my god, is that what I think it is? Was someone actually desperate enough to get off with you, Freak?”

Not Good. Sherlock had only thought to discomfit an annoying person, but this had had the unintended side effect of making John very uncomfortable. Though his face was carefully blank, the fingers of his left hand were trembling slightly and the tips of his ears had turned red. This was something Sherlock hadn’t anticipated – yet another instance of John being able to surprise him. But why was John uncomfortable about the idea of someone learning about this development? That was a question that warranted further consideration in the future, but the present situation required immediate defusing.

He treated Sally to his most condescending stare. “If you’re going to misinterpret the facts and jump to absolutely incorrect conclusions like that, Sergeant Donovan, perhaps you’d find more meaningful employment writing for The Daily Mail. You’ve obviously no business being on the police force. An observant person would have noticed that my skin, being so pale. is easily bruised and that I play the violin quite regularly. Surely even you could manage to put those two facts together to realise that a mark on my neck is most likely caused by irritation from the instrument resting on my shoulder as I play? Really, who did you have to sleep with to be promoted this far?” He heard her sputtering as he swept inside, but there was really nothing interesting she could say. The stupid woman didn’t even consider that he held his violin on the other shoulder while playing.

Lestrade met them at the door to the flat, his face grim. “Sherlock, there better be a good reason why your name and number were sitting on the victim’s computer. I’ve already got the higher-ups out for my head over that little stunt you pulled to get into the Karjavin woman’s flat. If you’ve been involved in any way here, you better come clean about it before you walk into this mess.”

“Never been here before in my life. How long ago was the body discovered? Who was first on the scene?”

“About three hours ago,” Lestrade said as he moved aside and let them into the small kitchen. “Down the hall neighbour was taking her dog for a walk when it went berserk at the front door here. Wouldn’t stop barking. She said he used to be a hunting dog and still went a bit mad at the smell of blood. She knocked and got no answer, so she called the police. Officers Jacoby and Boulden responded to dispatch. They could smell the blood even from the hall, so they knocked in the door. And, well, they found this.” He gestured to the body splayed out against the cabinets. “Name’s Victor Trevor. Twenty five years old. The flatmate, Edward Windibank, must have been abducted at the same time. We’ve got the kidnapping squad on his case now.”

Sherlock tuned out the rest of Lestrade’s commentary as he observed the scene before him. The victim, an extraordinarily tall young man, was being poked and prodded by a team of Forensics Incompetents, led by Anderson. The swarm of latex gloves and blue coveralls obscured most of the view. No doubt anything interesting had already been blundered over. It was no use trying to gather evidence there at the moment; the rest of the flat would be so much more revealing.

Blood had been tracked all over the kitchen and the adjacent sitting room by someone wearing size 14 dress shoes _(weight distributed unevenly, no pressure in the toes, 66 centimetre strides, dragging the tips, pronounced supination of the ankles, pigeon-toed)._ The sitting room and part of the kitchen had clearly been the object of some determined havoc _(books and videos knocked off shelves, lamp tipped over, broken glass from picture frames below the mantel, sofa cushions strewn around the floor)._ It was clear that a pair of bachelors had lived here _(a collection of beer bottles lined a top bookshelf, furnishings had all been selected for frugality or comfort rather than design, a hamper in the corner was filled with soiled laundry that had clearly been left there for several days)._ The door on the right was ajar, displaying a Spartan and spotless bedroom. Sherlock went through the other, tightly shut door first.

It was clearly not the room of the victim in the kitchen. That man was just shy of two metres, and everything in this room was set up for a man who was closer to one and half metres. Judging by the angle of the shaving mirror perched on the bureau, he was 1.6 metres, to be more precise. Edward Windibank’s room, then. Clearly a technophile; a power strip beside the desk held chargers for an iPod and a tablet as well as the cords for another computer, a desktop model. This was a semi-permanent arrangement, as shown by the layer of dust covering the whole set-up. The only empty socket had a clear spot where something had recently been removed.

Windibank was a bit of a dandy as well. The closet was filled with more wardrobe options than any sane man would ever wear, all stuffed and jumbled in an untidy heap. At a glance, Sherlock counted no fewer than eleven pairs of shoes, all size six, including a pair of what looked like women’s pumps. Football cleats corroborated the photo of a trio of young men in the navy blue and white of Harrow jerseys, all making obscene gestures at the camera. From the stray hairs scattered on the floor, it was clear that Edward had short, brown, wavy hair. Why were long black strands caught in the teeth of the comb left on the bed?

Bedside table showed no condoms; either he was in a committed relationship _(unlikely, given the variety of pornographic magazines in the drawer)_ , he chose not to take precautions with new people _(sticking plasters and antibacterial hand gel on desk, so he was attentive to health in other areas)_ , he relied on partners to supply prophylactics _(again, unlikely based on the precautions taken in other areas)_ , or he was not currently in a position that would allow him to attract and retain sexual partners. So why were smudges of pale pink lipstick on his pillowcase? And where had the black strands of hair come from? Or the shoes?

The other detritus littering the nightstand and the bureau top were fairly typical for a single young man. Ticket stubs for films and concerts, a mostly empty can of shaving foam, poker chips, broken CD cases, receipts from shops, an Oyster card, racing forms, visitor’s badges to The Eye, the British Museum, the Port Authority, and the Tower, scrawled telephone numbers on various pub napkins and matchbooks, several packs of playing cards, empty pack of cheap cigarettes, pocket phrasebooks for Russian and French. All the normal, boring, tedious things people did to fill up their time until they died.

Victor Trevor’s room was a stark contrast to the magpie mess of his flatmate’s. The bed was neatly made. Books were shelved alphabetically by author’s last name. Computer cords were coiled neatly out of the way where they might present tripping hazards. A large crucifix dominated the wall opposite the bed, and a string of rosary beads hung from the headboard.

The only other decoration on the wall was a large cork board covered with photos. Most of the people in the images shared Victor’s prominent lower jaw and mousey blonde hair. Family members, then. One or two with unrelated people of about the same age, all clearly taken on some sort of camping holiday. A man in a Roman collar featured prominently in several. Each picture was tacked very carefully to the board so that the edges met but did not overlap, except in the lower right corner. Though there were no spaces, the photos were slightly disarrayed, as if someone had hastily rearranged them.

The closet was mostly empty, holding only a single dark suit, a few button-up shirts, and two uniforms with the LPA Security logo on them shoulder. Shoes were stacked neatly in boxes; four ties were hanging on a rack. Everything was starched and ironed within an inch of its life.

Only the computer desk showed any sign of being less than neatly arranged. Scraps of paper littered the area beside the keyboard, vague and barely legible phrases scribbled on them. _Milk, bread, soap. M 12-9 W 12-9 F 10-7. Call Fr Roder. Ushering Sunday. Holly Trafalgar 7p. Dinner 6:30 Gino’s. Holloway to Brighton 12:15._ One note was stuck upright in the keyboard: _Sherlock Holmes, Science Ded._ Underneath the smudged pencil message was scrawled his own mobile number, in ink. Well, this was obvious enough.

Back in the kitchen, the Forensics team was just packing away their kit. Anderson saw him and turned to Lestrade, drawling, “The professionals have got it all done here. I guess there’s no harm in letting a couple of amateurs have a go now. I’ll be back at my lab if you need anything.”

“Don’t try to be clever, Anderson,” Sherlock replied. “The strain must be overheating your brain.” He sniffed. “Does anyone else smell strawberries? Odd.”

“What are you getting at, Freak?” Anderson asked.

“Oh, nothing. I just thought that particular scent was much better suited to Detective Inspector Dimmock. It went so well with his laundry soap.”

Anderson purpled, but he was dragged away by another burly member of the Forensics team before he could carry out his blatant, if incoherent, threats of violence. Lestrade did not look amused, but he refrained from any reprimands. For now.

The Forensics team had already swabbed and prodded the body, but it had not been moved much from where it fell. Blood spread in coagulating pools over much of the kitchen floor. It was no wonder the dog had gone berserk; it looked as if the entire contents of Victor Trevor’s circulatory system had been splashed against the cabinets and dumped on the floor. There must have been some time between the initial attack and the fatal blow; as the victim had moved through the kitchen, blood had been wiped on nearly every surface in the room.

The corpse was wearing a plain grey t-shirt and neatly ironed denims. Nothing interesting there, aside from the evidence of a minor compulsion disorder. A Sacred Heart medal hung on a fine chain around his neck. Most of his body was covered in blood, but the palm of his left hand had been scrubbed clean. Sherlock could just make out faint traces of the words written there in blue ballpoint pen: _Hon…ell… Be…_.

Sherlock examined the man’s feet: _size fourteen, wear on the inner edge consistent with ankle pronation_. The large kitchen knife on the counter would most likely be proven to be the murder weapon; the blade was consistent with the cuts, and blood was fairly caked all over it. Multiple lacerations covered the victim’s arms and face, all of which would have bled heavily. His chest had been sliced open; there were marks were the blade had caught on the ribs and clavicle. It was difficult to see beneath the mess on his face, but his skin was notably pallid, consistent with massive blood loss. At first glance, it would appear that Victor Trevor had been knifed to death.

“Well, he wasn’t knifed to death,” said John, very quietly beside him. “Look at his throat, here. The hyoid’s been broken when he was choked. And here, petechia.” John lifted the victim’s eyelids to show the tiny, tell-tale signs of haemorrhaging in the whites of his eyes. “Not much, though. He’d already lost a lot of blood by the time our killer got around to choking him. Probably got this one here in the back first; it bled the most. Then he tried to defend himself and got these others all over his arms and his head. Whoever did this didn’t get to the chest until just after he was dead, that’s why the blood seeped out instead of the arterial spray it would have done otherwise. Must have been pretty upset to keep stabbing a corpse like that. Or just bloody crazy…” He trailed off at the sight of the avid, blue eyes staring hungrily at him. When John nervously ran his tongue over his lower lip, it was all Sherlock could do not to tackle him to the floor and tear all his clothes off.

“It’s fairly obvious what happened here. Call me when Edward Windibank turns himself in.” He grabbed John’s arm and started propelling him to the door.

Lestrade called after them, “Why would he turn himself in? He’s been _abducted_ , for Christ’s sake.”

That stopped him. “Why do you keep saying he’s been abducted?”

“Signs of a struggle, he’s missing, and the ransom note is a pretty big clue.” Lestrade handed him a piece of grimy paper wrapped in clear cellophane. “The family’s pretty loaded; own half the major import firms in the city. Looks like this bloke just got caught up in the cross-fire when they came for the other one. Found this.”

The message was written in blood, probably Trevor’s, on a sheet from a cheap steno pad. _We have Windibank. Bring 500 mil by midnight tomorrow. No police._

Sherlock stared at the Detective Inspector. And all the assembled idiots following so blindly where they were led. It was absurd, really, that anyone would fall for this ploy.

“He wasn’t abducted, and he’s certainly not being held for ransom. Does anyone in your department ever think? It’s a wonder you can get anything done.” Lestrade looked ready to object, but Sherlock didn’t give him a chance. “Edward Windibank, _a.k.a._ Holly Angel, killed his flatmate when he realised he was about to be discovered. Then he ran about, making it look like a kidnapping, and went into hiding. Unfortunately, the people he’s working for aren’t likely to take kindly to that sort of panic. You might find him holed up in some ghastly motel, but he won’t be tied to a chair or anything. Obviously, he’s the one who killed Victor Trevor. Possibly because they had a row about Edward dressing up as Victor’s girlfriend. More likely because Victor realised that Edward was involved in illegal smuggling activities and made an attempt to contact someone who could actually do something about it. Killed his roommate in a fit of panic – none of this was planned – and faked his own kidnapping to cover his tracks. That should be enough for your team to be going on, don’t you think?”

Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before saying, “Look, I know that’s all perfectly obvious and we’re all idiots for not getting it, but would you mind explaining it in a way that I could actually present in court?”

“Windibank may have come from a wealthy family, but he was willing to stay in this tiny flat with another person and smoke ridiculously cheap cigarettes, so the family clearly isn’t supporting him. Possibly because of his cross-dressing skills, possibly because of his gambling habits. No sign of legal employment, receipts and tickets from all hours of the day and night, so he must have another source of income. Russian phrasebook in his room but no other indications that he speaks the language. We know the weapons smuggling ring has been using Russian as a form of code. Young man accustomed to having financial support finds himself without it, it stands to reason that he’d turn to alternate means of income.

“Flatmate worked as security for the London Port Authority, so clearly he would be an interesting person for smugglers to know. Strong religious background makes it highly unlikely that he would willingly provide information to people for illegal purposes. But he’s forgetful, despite the compulsively clean behaviour he shows. He writes notes to himself of everything he needs to do. He wouldn’t let a flatmate get close enough to see those, but a girlfriend would have access to practically anything when he wasn’t looking. Windibank sees his opportunity to impress his new employers and assumes the identity of Ms Holly Angel. Trevor lived like a monk, as you can see from the selection of photographs on his wall and his choice of decorations. Good Catholic boy like that wouldn’t date just anybody; no, he’d only be interested in someone on the same religious page. Good news for Windibank: he doesn’t have to worry about the physical aspects of a relationship revealing the ruse.”

Lestrade interrupted, “Wait, hang on. He was dating his flatmate in disguise?”

“Windibank had short, brown hair, but there is long, black hair caught in the teeth of his hairbrush. No signs of a girlfriend at the moment, but there are smears of lipstick and women’s shoes in his room. He was short and very thin, easily able to pass for a woman if you’re not too particular. The photo of Edward in his football uniform, though several years old, is a close enough match for the girl Trevor was dating. He sent me a photo when he thought she’d just disappeared.” Sherlock handed Lestrade his phone, on which he’d called up the post Victor Trevor had made on the website a few days back. “Take away the hair, the lipstick, the glasses, and the face is identical. Ultra Catholic Trevor wouldn’t dream of getting close enough to notice things like testicles.

“It works out well for both of them for a while. Holly Angel gets to visit Trevor at work and find out all the smugglers need to know about shift changes and security checkpoints; Victor Trevor has a girlfriend who doesn’t expect anything physical. Until Windibank realises that he’s got everything out of Trevor that he could need and drops the ruse. But he didn’t count on Trevor contacting me about the sudden disappearance of his girlfriend. When I didn’t respond, Windibank thought he was in the clear. But then he sees that Trevor is intending to phone me. The mobile number was written after the reminder of my name and website, smudged the original pencil when he wrote the second reminder in ink, surely even you figured that out. The possibility of discovery is much higher now.

“When Trevor came home after his last shift, he had something written on his hand. Must not have had any paper on hand. Whatever was written on his palm was incriminating, either for Windibank or for the people he’s working for. Panicked, Windibank grabs the closest weapon and starts slashing. But Trevor doesn’t die right away. So Windibank took advantage of weakness from the loss of blood and strangled him, continuing to stab even after Trevor stopped breathing, just in case. Then he scrubbed the dead man’s palm to remove whatever it was he had written there.

“Finally coming to his senses, Windibank realises that he’d better come up with a cover story. He puts on a pair of his dead flatmate’s size fourteen shoes and makes sure to track blood all over the flat; the stride length is that of a 160 centimetre man, not what you’d expect from shoes that large. No signs of weight in the toes of the footprints, so someone with much smaller feet wearing the shoes. The tread pattern is consistent with the wear on Windibank’s shoes. He stages signs of a struggle, but all the wreckage is superficial and careful, all of it happening right around shoulder height for Windibank. Didn’t even knock over that row of souvenir bottles on the bookshelf over there.

“He takes the only photograph of himself dressed as Holly Angel that Trevor had; you can see the photos in the corner of Trevor’s collection were rearranged by someone who didn’t care if the edges lined up perfectly – clearly not by the man who ironed his jeans. The ransom note alone should have given it all away – no location specified for the drop of an absurd amount of money. The blood was a nice touch, though. Appropriately grotesque.

“Windibank isn’t clever enough to think up a good place to hide out now. If he didn’t go directly to the people he was working for, you may find him near the casinos. Far more likely, though, that he went straight to the smugglers paying his bills. They don’t strike me as the sort to be understanding about a mess like this. You’ll probably find his body in a day or so. If you’re lucky, it’ll still be identifiable.”

That was more than enough for them to work with. Sherlock had no more patience for fools who couldn’t do their own jobs. Not when John was being brilliant and demonstrating the use of all his medical training. The sound of John going through his own method of deduction had made Sherlock absolutely desperate to have him naked and close and… well, he didn’t know exactly what else. It would be good, though. He was sure of that.

Lestrade was still trying to write down everything important as Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and all but dragged him from the flat. If anyone called them back this time, he didn’t care enough to hear it. The lift arrived immediately and was blessedly empty. Sherlock took advantage of the closing doors to crush his mouth against John’s, pushing him up against a convenient wall to press their bodies together. Their teeth clicked together under the desperation of Sherlock’s assault, but John moaned, low and deep in his chest, so it must be ok. With his hands fisted in Sherlock’s lapels and his hips tilted forward to demonstrate the growing evidence of his arousal, John opened fully to Sherlock’s insistent demands. For a moment, Sherlock was lost, completely lost, in the feeling of John’s kiss. Nothing else mattered, really.

A polite “ahem” dragged him back to the world outside of John’s lips. An elderly gentleman was standing in front of the opening lift doors, brows quirked in amusement. “So sorry to intrude, gents, but I’m not quite up for the stairs at this time of night. Would you mind terribly pressing the call for the ground floor, please?” He stepped in and carefully kept his back to them. When Sherlock got himself under control, he saw that John’s face and neck were completely red. Embarrassment. Interesting. Coupled with his reaction to Sergeant Donovan’s comments earlier, John’s current state indicated that he was very uncomfortable with the concept of public displays of their newly-formed sexual relationship.

How would John feel about other displays in public? Would he want to keep everything private between the two of them? The thought of having John as his own, secret, hidden away where the world couldn’t find him, did interesting things to Sherlock’s heart rate while they left the building and found a cab. Of course, the thought of John displaying proudly in public the marks of Sherlock's affections did equally interesting things.  Safely ensconced in the back, mindful of the prying eyes of the driver, Sherlock leaned in close to John’s ear and whispered, “I would like nothing more than to tear all your clothes off and spend hours cataloguing the taste of every inch of your skin. To echo your earlier statement, watching you figure out the cause of death may be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” He laid John’s hand over the heat swelling between his legs to prove the truth of his words. John shivered and swallowed hard but stared directly ahead, unblinking. The pulse in his wrist fluttered furiously against Sherlock’s fingertips, but he didn’t remove his hand. They stayed like that the whole ride home, Sherlock’s breath rushing hot against John’s neck, John’s palm sliding slowly, torturously slowly against Sherlock’s erection, both afraid of what might happen if they made eye contact.

Sherlock didn’t wait for the cab to stop completely in front of 221B before he was across the sidewalk and fiddling with the front door. His hands were practically shaking with anticipation, making it very difficult to fit the key in the lock. By the time the frustrating hardware finally yielded, John had paid the driver and come up very close, his presence driving all other thoughts out of Sherlock’s mind. Hastily, both men ducked through the door and away from prying eyes.


	23. Chapter 23

The need to finish what they’d started in the lift became very urgent. Before the front door had swung shut, Sherlock had John pushed up against it, filling his hands with broad shoulders and his mouth with the sound of John’s gasping breath. Apparently, John was just as eager, fisting his hands in dark curls to pull Sherlock’s mouth down and stretching up. At the feel of John’s body pressed against his, Sherlock groaned and stepped in closer, one of his long legs fitting in between John’s. It would seem that John approved of this arrangement, as he began rocking his hips on the slim thigh, hard and hot even through denim and cotton and wool. Not that Sherlock was complaining; he rutted his hips forward like an animal in a mating frenzy, desperate to achieve more friction, more stimulation. One of them moaned, he didn’t know whom, the primal, animal sound filling the entryway and shivering down his spine.

He had been intent on doing something. What was it he had intended to do? All he could remember was the desperate urge to be closer to John Watson, to open up his skin and _melt_ inside. _Bed._ That was it. He wanted to drag John down someplace where there was enough room to explore without falling off the sofa. Bed was impossibly far away, though, and John was _right here._ Sherlock dragged his hands through the short, blonde silk of John’s hair and tilted his head to gain better access to all the secrets John was hiding behind his teeth.

Footsteps behind him didn’t register through the fog in his brain, but Mrs Hudson’s concerned greeting brought him up short. “Sherlock, I thought I heard someone come in. Is everything all right, dear? It sounded like someone was in pain just now. Oh, is that Doctor Watson come back? We’ve missed you round here these past few weeks, Doctor Watson. Sherlock got into such a strop while you were away. Did you have a nice holiday, then?”

Sherlock had never hated his landlady more. John stared up at him, his pupils blown wide and his lips reddened and full from their recent ministrations. Slowly, subtly, John shifted and drew back his hips, and Sherlock almost sobbed at the loss of contact.

Finally, in a choked voice, John ground out, “Just fine, Mrs Hudson. We’ll be – I’ll just be going up to bed, then. Good night.”

“Oh! Well, er, good night, then, Doctor Watson. Sherlock.” The soft padding of her slippers retreated down the hall, leaving harsh panting breaths to fill the silence once more. 

John pushed gently against Sherlock’s chest, saying, “Maybe we should take this someplace more comfortable. And, uh, _private._ ” The soft growl in his voice made Sherlock start to pin him against the door in a renewed assault, but John ducked beneath the long arms and headed for the stairs. Sherlock couldn’t help but follow, like an iron filament drawn to a high-powered magnet. He followed closely enough to appreciate the subtle shifting of muscle in John’s backside as he climbed each step.

Sherlock paused to open the door to his bedroom, but he realised that John was walking away. That wasn’t right. _Why would John walk away now?_ “John, are you… I mean, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Don’t leave again.” He murmured that last bit so quietly that he wasn’t even sure John had heard. But John was turning back, still a step above, to pull Sherlock into his arms again.

He licked a fiery line up the pale throat, each swipe of his tongue sparking sympathetic vibrations much lower, before saying, “Don’t be a sodding git, Sherlock. I’ve wanted this, wanted you, since I first moved in here. But I’ve got all the necessary supplies up in my room. And it’s two floors above anyone who might _hear._ ” He latched those delightfully clever lips back on Sherlock’s, the new angle providing a whole new set of data to process.

With John higher like this, their bodies were aligned in intriguing new configurations. Sherlock experimentally rocked his hips forward, sliding his erection along John’s eager shaft. It was incredible, the feeling indescribable. He tried to repeat the motion, rocking back on the stairs, completely lost in the novel sensation, but John stepped back. “Ease up a bit, Sherlock. If this is your first time, we’re going to have to take things slow and careful. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He clutched the tips of Sherlock’s fingers in his own and drew him up the stairs, never breaking eye contact. Sherlock swallowed nervously under the intensity of that gaze. “All of my research indicated as much, though I haven’t yet been able to perform any practical experimentation.”

The corner of John’s lip quirked, an involuntary muscle movement. “Research, Sherlock? You researched how to get off?”

“Is that not good?”

“Oh, it’s, uh, yeah. I think we’d better get out of the hall before I tear all your clothes off on the stairs and embarrass Mrs Hudson again.” He pulled Sherlock into the darkened bedroom and said, in a voice noticeably deeper than normal, “Strip, before I ruin that fancy shirt of yours by ripping it apart.” John followed his own instructions by wrenching his own clothing off so quickly that Sherlock barely had time to follow the movement of reaching limbs and disappearing garments before John stood before him, completely and unabashedly nude.

Sherlock’s fingers stilled on the buttons of his shirt as he drank in the sight of the body before him. Vaguely, he reflected on the influence of close military quarters on levels of modesty, but John’s skin beckoned him for a closer look.

There was so much to see and observe, so much of John’s life story reflected on his body. As John lay back on the bed, Sherlock crawled over him, intent on solving every one of the puzzles laid out before him. The well-developed muscles in the upper back and thighs, evidence of all the hours spent playing rugby. The scar just below the left knee, where an abrasion had been infected before healing, back before John hit puberty. The faint irregularity of the bones in the right wrist from a Colles fracture about ten years ago. The line of tanned skin against pale at his hips, where his swimming trunks rested in New Zealand. The puckered scar on his shoulder left by the bullet in Afghanistan that had ultimately brought him back to England. To Sherlock.

John’s eyes drifted shut under the soft brush of Sherlock’s exploring fingers. His breathing slowed slightly and became more regular, but the hard weight of his erection didn’t flag in the slightest. Finally, Sherlock found himself drawn back to this particular region, noting the subtle change in John’s breathing patterns at the approach. Slowly, he threaded his fingers through the blonde curls surrounding the engorged shaft rising so prominently. The hair was softer than expected, springing back after the lightest of touches. When his long fingers finally clasped the silken-hot skin, the breath left John’s chest in a rush. Under closer inspection, Sherlock could see the skin of the testicles moving and drawing around the glands within, constantly shifting like a swirling fingerprint. At the feel of breath puffing out hot against the sensitive skin, John’s length twitched and jerked in his hand. The smell was intriguing, much more pleasant than Sherlock had anticipated. It was faint, most everything washed away by the shower earlier, but Sherlock could still pick out soap, sweat, warmly musky smells underlaid with an indefinable scent that spoke of John and all that he promised.

The taste of John in his mouth was much as he had expected, but John’s reaction to the sudden application of lips and tongue to hypersensitive skin was much better than anticipated. At the first swipe of Sherlock’s tongue, John sucked in a harsh breath and scrabbled his fingers in the sheets below him. When Sherlock bent his head and took the entire length in his mouth, John’s hips thrust forward involuntarily, arching his spine off the bed as if seeking blindly to absorb more of what Sherlock was offering. Hastily, Sherlock cast about in his mind for other sensations he could create with his mouth. His only prior experience had been so unpleasant that he didn’t think he’d better try recreating any of Kevin’s techniques with John. Cautiously, he pulled his mouth back, applying suction as he would if drawing the poison out of a bee sting. John’s sudden cry sounded very encouraging, so he repeated the manoeuvre. Several times.

Before he could find any sort of a rhythm for moving, John’s hands in his hair stopped him. “Sherlock, I think you’d better give that a rest if you want this to last any time at all,” he said as he tugged gently to bring Sherlock up on the bed next to him.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no, not wrong.” John paused and breathed deeply, closing his eyes. “I’ve been building up for so long that I’m afraid this’ll all be over too quickly if you don’t ease up a bit. Even after what we did this afternoon.” His soft lips offered an apology to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, but then he was gone, sliding away and down. He removed the shirt from where it was still clinging to Sherlock’s shoulders, then reached down to undo the fastenings of his trousers, standing back to strip the offending garment away.

Before Sherlock had a chance to protest the loss of contact, he felt the first rush of John’s breath against his hip. As John licked a slow, tortuous path across the prominent bone, he ghosted his palm in an answering line above the hard length lying against Sherlock’s stomach. John repeated this move several times before moving to the other hip and performing the same delightful torture there. Sherlock tried to stay still, but the first brush of John’s lips against his erection had him squirming and making noises that had him very glad they were on the second floor.

Slowly, with his fingers still tracing out distracting patterns on hips and thighs, John slid his tongue around the Sherlock’s erection, tasting every inch with deliberate precision. He stroked firmly against the cluster of nerves at the frenulum, used lips to pull back the foreskin, lapped briefly at the tip. Before Sherlock could begin to adjust to one set of neurons sending fiery signals up his spine, another sensation would take their place, leaving him off-kilter and completely at John’s mercy.

When John finally engulfed Sherlock in his mouth, the resulting overload of stimulation had him arching off the bed, thrusting futilely. John backed off a bit, just enough to allow Sherlock to regain some of his higher brain functions, before renewing his efforts. Through this repeated cycle of sensation, Sherlock was just barely aware of John, without faltering the rhythm of his lips, reaching into the bedside table for something. _Surgeon,_ he thought, vaguely trying to regain some form of mental control. _Trained to be ambidextrous and multi-ta…_ The rest of the thought was drowned out by a whole new set of nerves demanding attention. One of John’s clever fingers was pressing a slick path inside of him. It was odd and uncomfortable, not the way all those websites had described it, but any discomfort was easily outweighed by that thing John was doing with his tongue.

One finger was soon joined by another, filling him and stretching him in ways that were not quite pleasant but not wholly unpleasant either. John’s thumb was firmly stroking along his perineum, pressing up just enough to make something inside tingle. He was surprisingly sensitive in that area, and the juxtaposition of stimulation was altogether overwhelming. All too soon, John removed his hands, his mouth, his fingers, his hot breath, and crawled up the bed to loom over him. Sherlock tried to recover his breath but made the mistake of opening his eyes. John’s face filled his vision, the evidence of his recent activities clear in the swollen lips and dilated pupils. The sight was entrancing, and Sherlock had to lean up to capture those lips in his own, tasting himself on John’s tongue.

“Sherlock,” he breathed. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but you’re so bloody tight that I don’t know I’ll be able to help it. We’ll go slowly, but you tell me if it’s too much.” One hand danced feverish circles across the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s chest while the other was busy rolling on a condom and covering it with lubricant. Sherlock had reason to be profoundly grateful for his natural flexibility when John drew his knees toward his chest, tilting his hips up. “Relax. Trust me,” he whispered into Sherlock’s mouth.

He didn’t think John would ever be able to fit. Everywhere was resistant, despite the stretching and the lubrication slicking the way. And it burned as John pressed forward. The discomfort must have shown on his face, because John paused and started to pull back. Sherlock realised then that he wanted this, even if he didn’t quite know what to expect. He wanted to feel John inside of him, wanted John to possess his body as thoroughly as he now possessed his mind. With a deep breath, Sherlock grabbed tanned hips and pulled.

The pain was intense but fading by the moment, replaced in his mind by the look on John’s face, the sound of John’s muffled groan, the feeling of John’s body buried deep. When the burning had lessened to a dull throb, Sherlock tentatively rocked his hips back, delighting in the sounds this caused John to make. It was extraordinary, really, the effect he could have on this man, this stoic, steadfast, stolid soldier falling to pieces above him. Physically, Sherlock was a little disappointed by the lack of stimulation; his sources had been quite specific about the role of the mechanoreceptor nerves on the surface of the prostate in achieving orgasm. It would seem that they had exaggerated somewhat: the sensation, while mildly pleasant, was nowhere near as enjoyable as that caused by John’s mouth and hands on his erection.

Still, John seemed to be enjoying himself. His face _(jaw slack, brow furrowed, eyes squeezed shut)_ bore a look of intense concentration, his breath coming short and fast. “Oh, god, Sherlock,” he groaned. “You’re so… uh… wow…” He moved slowly out, sliding his hips back smoothly before jerking forward again. John’s hands resumed their maddening dance across his chest, lighting up every nerve ending along the way, sending lances of heat straight down into his groin. That was good. That was better than good; that was magnificent. But then John leaned forward and dragged his tongue up the line of Sherlock’s throat, scraping gently with his teeth. The extra stimulation made Sherlock jump, his hips jerking up against John’s.

 _Stars._ There were stars exploding in his mind. The minute adjustment in angles brought everything into alignment, sending lightning heat arcing up Sherlock’s spine to overload his brain. A loud, keening cry filled the room, possibly torn from Sherlock’s throat. He didn’t know any more. All he knew was the instinct to slam his hips up again, seeking more of that incredible friction from John. With a muted chuckle, John dropped one hand to Sherlock’s hip, forcing him to move slowly and evenly. “Steady, now. Don’t want to break – ngh – something.” John’s eyes stayed locked onto Sherlock’s, steady blue eyes anchoring him in place.

Sherlock fisted his fingers through John’s hair, seeking some stability in the maelstrom of neural sparking. He wanted to make John feel this way, incoherent and overloaded on sensation. While tracing one wet finger along the muscles clenching and shifting in John’s jaw, Sherlock tried shifting and squeezing internally. Something must have worked, because John’s entire face twisted, his hips losing their steady rhythm. Five jerking thrusts, and John’s eyes squeezed shut. He shuddered into Sherlock, releasing a short, startled cry that was quickly muffled. And then there was heat, flooding into his body. Through it all, Sherlock marvelled at his face, at the knowledge that he could make this calm, orderly man lose control so completely. It was extraordinary.

A few, quick strokes of John’s hot palm were enough to short out the circuits in his brain, the after-image of John’s orgasmic features reflecting behind his eyes.

Finally, John slumped over his body as all the energy seemed to drain out of him. “Fuck, Sherlock. Where the hell did you learn to do that?” He rolled off, and Sherlock was strangely discomfited at the loss of the hot, sweaty weight above him. Empty and cold. “We might have to call Mrs Turner and let her know nobody’s been murdered up here. Glad you enjoyed yourself.” John got up and walked away, but before Sherlock could wonder at the loss, he was back with a towel. After a cursory swipe, he collapsed again beside Sherlock’s indolent form.

Within seconds, his slow, even breathing was drifting past Sherlock’s neck. _I’d better go back downstairs,_ he thought. _I need to compare cargo manifests with Victor Trevor’s work schedule. And check the connection between… um… this is surprisingly comfortable… look up the… mmm…_


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock awoke to an entirely new set of sensory inputs. The first was the novel realisation that he was actually waking up during a case. Which meant that he had actually _slept_ during a case. When this realisation finally filtered through his sleep-fogged brain, he took stock of the rest of his surroundings. A warm, fuzzy arm was draped across his chest, blunt fingers splayed across pale ribs. Hot breath streamed across his neck, tickling his cheek. His shoulder was damp and sticky where a small puddle of drool was swiftly cooling. His knee itched a bit where the coarse hairs of a hard thigh rubbed against it. Steady against his arm, he felt the rhythm of a sleepy heartbeat, pressed down by the weight of a broad chest.

Very cautiously, Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction. The tanned face of Doctor John Watson was resting on his shoulder, still relaxed in sleep. So. Last night had not been a particularly vivid hallucination, then. More thorough self-assessment revealed to him the fact that certain parts of his body were extremely sore. He hadn't shared a bed with another person as far as he could remember, and the proximity was ... intriguing.

This close, Sherlock could see every tiny detail of John’s face. Fine lines around his eyes, minute scars from shaving accidents, stubby eyelashes against the delicate skin below his eyes, faint streaks of grey at his temples, slightly uneven sideburns. He had seen it all before, of course, but never from this angle. And never while John was sleeping beside him, drooling on his shoulder. It was nice, he decided.

He shifted his focus down, taking in all of John’s body that he could see. Early morning sunlight leaked in around the curtain, leaving streaks of gold across John’s arm and shoulder, like honey. Moving slowly so as not to disturb his slumber, Sherlock ghosted his free hand just above the whorls of hair covering John’s arm. Everything about this man was so obvious on the surface, yet so contradictory beneath. It would take him a lifetime to learn everything there was to know about John Watson, and Sherlock intended to start right now.

He must have shifted something, because John stirred and blinked, wariness creeping over his face as he took in his surroundings. Finally, he turned and yawned. “Morning. So, uh, well. That happened.”

Sherlock was not sure how he was supposed to respond to this less than coherent statement, but he thought that more kissing might be in order. John seemed to agree, stretching lazily against him and sliding his hands into sleep-mussed curls. This new position brought to light certain elements of John’s body that were very much awake. The gentle nudging against his thigh made Sherlock laugh. “Again, John? You’re much more spry than I anticipated.”

“What? Oh, no. I mean, well, _yeah_ , but um, no. It’s just a morning, um, yeah. I’ve got to go, um, you know. Right.” With a final brush of his lips, John crawled out of the bed and walked stiffly out the door. Sherlock lay there for a bit, listening to the faint sounds of John downstairs, before giving up and following. Leaving his own clothes in a rumpled heap on the floor, he wrapped himself in John’s dressing gown. The worn flannel fabric felt nice against his skin, and it enveloped him in the echo of John’s scent.

As he started the kettle for tea, Sherlock considered the options for breakfast. John liked eating breakfast, and he liked to see Sherlock pretending to eat breakfast. Sherlock would make breakfast. There was no milk. The single egg left was clearly gone off. A half loaf of bread stashed behind the centrifuge was hard as a rock where it wasn’t covered in green fuzz. And there was no tea. Well. They would just have to go out for breakfast.

John wandered into the kitchen with just a towel wrapped around his hips. This time, Sherlock knew _exactly_ why his mouth had gone dry and his heart rate had sped up. Seeing this reaction, John smirked. “I can give you a proper good morning this time,” he said, stretching up to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s slack jaw. “Is that my robe? Guess this means you’re not regretting yesterday, then.” He pulled away just when things were getting really interesting. “Slow down, you. You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? I haven’t even had a chance to show you what I brought back for you from New Zealand.”

From a rucksack in the corner of the sitting room, John produced a large, fluffy, brown and yellow object and presented it to him. Sherlock stared at the thing without taking it, completely flummoxed. The more he stared in confused horror, the wider John smiled.

“John… _What_ is that?”

“It’s a kiwi hat. I thought it’d keep your head warm. Here, try it on.”

He snatched the pile of fuzz out of John’s grasp before it could come in contact with his head. It was furry and completely absurd, with a protrusion coming from the front that he supposed was supposed to be a beak. Flaps extended from either side to be tied beneath the wearer’s chin and complete the appearance of absolute ridiculousness.

“I don’t wear hats. What use would I have for a hat? It’s not even a well-made hat. Look at the lining here – it wouldn’t even keep my head warm. There’s no bill to shade the face, no vents to provide cooling. What is the purpose of something like this?”

“That’s the point of a souvenir, Sherlock. There is no point. They’re useless and ridiculous and tacky and proof that someone was thinking about you even while on holiday.”

That made Sherlock pause, taking another look at the fluffy monstrosity. “You were thinking about me while in New Zealand?”

“Every minute.” John’s ears turned a bit pink, but he didn’t look away. “It was a bit awkward, you know, being on the beach with Sarah walking about in a bikini and all I could think about was your skinny arse.”

Sherlock had a sudden urge to shout from the windows. _(John thought about him! John had been in another country with a gorgeous woman and thinking about him!)_ He considered what to do with his new treasure. Wearing it was out of the question, regardless of the sentiment with which it had been purchased. Still, he wanted everyone to see it, to know that John Watson, that extraordinary, surprising, beautiful man, had thought about him while on holiday. He settled for displaying the bird-shaped hat on the skull on the mantle, atop Jamie’s knickers. The corner of orange lace poking out over an empty eye socket was just a bit of complementary garishness.

Satisfied, Sherlock turned back to smirk at the mostly naked man in front of him. “Breakfast?”

______________________________________________________________________________

Melissa, the absurdly cheerful waitress at the café, appeared to have downed an entire pot of coffee before coming in to work, but she took John’s extensive order with no sign of a pad or pencil. Good memory, then. When she brought their tea, her hands shook just a bit _(nails filed down completely, not bitten, little finger nail left a bit longer, well-developed muscles in both forearms, heavy callouses on the tips and sides of the fingers, easy finger articulation: concert harpist)_. Perhaps she had drunk the whole pot of coffee, after all. Caffeine overdose would explain the jitters.

Sherlock was mildly amazed at the amount of food that arrived, but John handed him a fork with a stern admonition to eat. “Yeah, I know, eating on a case slows you down and all that, but after your, uh, _activities_ yesterday, you’re going to need food. Especially if you want to have another go. Now, as your doctor, I forbid you from taking part in any more of that sort of recreation unless you’ve eaten some protein.”

Under the stern gaze and suggestive wink of a RAMC Captain, Sherlock swallowed a few bites of whatever was in front of him. That commanding voice was surprisingly arousing.

Satisfied, John turned back to his own plate. “So, clearly a lot’s been happening while I was away. You went from knocks on the head to murdered security guards. What have I missed?”

Sherlock laid out everything he had discovered about the case so far, starting when he had first noticed the anomalies, explaining his deductions about the false trail laid by the Russians, the hints Doctor Bell gave him about the text message code, the link he had found with Kevin Philips.

“Wait, hang on,” John interrupted him. “You were running your hands through the stripper’s hair?”

“Not that it matters, but I was trying to interrupt his… _unpleasant…_ tongue manoeuvres. He wasn’t responding to my other attempts to pull him off.”

“Pull him off what?”

“My… er… Well, I was trying to determine the extent of my frustration after you left, and it seemed like an appropriate… method of investigation.”

“You got sucked off by a stripper to get over me? I don’t know whether to be jealous or flattered!”

Sherlock could feel his face heating. “It was an all-round unpleasant experience and not one I’ll be repeating, no matter what Mycroft suggests.” John was obviously going to ask him more on the subject, but Sherlock continued his narrative, cutting off any more embarrassing questions. He had a few photos on his phone that he called up to illustrate various elements of the case. Translations of the Russian phrases used, a listing of all the references to bees and honey that he had connected.

“And this, found it on the inside of a bandage wrapped around Karolinski’s knee. Some sort of beeswax salve with _Gelsemium sempervirens_ mixed in.” John’s face looked very thoughtful, as if he was trying to remember something. “What, John?”

“ _Gelsemium semperivens…_ that’s yellow jessamine, yeah?” At Sherlock’s nod, he continued, “Well, that would make sense, given his rheumatism and all."

"What do you mean?"

"Yellow jessamine. Some people claim it helps with headaches and rheumatism. The stuff's poisonous to ingest, so it'd have to be used as a salve. A Yank I met in Afghanistan used to swear by the stuff, said it could cure just about everything."

Sherlock tuned him out, mentally comparing the notes in Karolinski's chart with what he remembered of the man's physical appearance. Stiff gait, bulging trouser leg where the bandage had been wrapped around the knee, definitely favouring the right leg. A man unaccustomed to trusting any outside authority like that would be much more eager to rely on folk remedies. But why would a Russian gangster be using an American medicine?

"This doctor in Afghanistan - what was he like?"

"He wasn't a doctor, just some bloke who liked hanging round the hospital and trying to pitch in. Typical Yank: loud, very friendly, claimed he wasn't a Yank because he was from some other part of the country, quite proud of his home in South Carolina. That's why he kept trying to push the jessamine on us, I think. It's some sort of official flower mascot over there. And it's not like it actually hurt anything. Smelled nice enough, I guess." John trailed off at the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. "Um, Sherlock? Everything alright?"

"South Carolina. Brilliant! _South Carolina_ , John! Don't you see? Yellow jessamine in the window box in Earl's Court should have been a dead give-away right there, but you were distracting me."

" _I_ was distracting you? So now it's my fault whenever your mind wanders to your trousers? You may have just accidentally complimented me, you know."

Everything was falling into place now, the speed of his deductions drowning out everything around him. "The man in charge of all this must have some connection with South Carolina; it all fits. Indigo and Magnolia, both trademarks of the southern United States, particularly of South Carolina; that’d be the connection between the warehouse where the distribution was stored and the company where Anya Karjavin worked. The ship from Charleston that happened to be in the harbour just before the biggest shipment. The jessamine perfume in Jamie's flat.

"The Russians were a red herring all along; oh, that is clever. Not Moriarty's style, but just as clever! John, I could kiss you!"

John blushed and cleared his throat. "Well, yeah, you could. Mind if I finish breakfast before you declare your eternal devotion for me, though? I need to keep up my strength if you plan on showing your appreciation like you did last night." His smirk was almost enough to derail Sherlock's train of thought. Almost.

"I still don't know who's been behind this whole scheme. I know _where_ , and I know _how_. But _who_? And _why_? I'm still missing something John. Why would someone from South Carolina be so interested in smuggling assault rifles into London?"

"Dunno. Protest over the British Invasion?"

"What? When did England invade South Carolina?"

"No, it was the all those bands, Beatles and the Rolling Stones in... You know what? Never mind. You probably deleted it."

"Then why bring it up?" He considered several theories as John finished his eggs. None of them were worth much, but thinking about the case kept him from throwing John over the table and kissing him until neither could breathe.


	25. Chapter 25

Back at the flat, John busied himself with unpacking while Sherlock considered the ramifications of everything he had just learned. Victor Trevor had obviously figured out something that could lead them to the people responsible, but Windibank/Angel had erased it after his initial panic.

 _Oh!_ No, not quite. What had those letters been on the dead man's hand? _Ho.... ell.... Be...._ The spaces between the letters could have the answer. Sherlock determined that he could never tell Doctor Bell about what he had just realised. The old man would never let him forget it.

Quickly, he called up a search engine on John's laptop and entered the appropriate parameters. It wasn't long before the results returned with an article from the Charleston Courier about shipping magnate Laurence Honeywell's plans to open a hub office in London. Interesting, but there was no reason for a successful businessman to delve into illegal smuggling activities. The next few links were similar - articles and interviews featuring Laurence Honeywell or his children, their plans for capital growth, exploits in school, nothing pertinent.

_Laurence Honeywell, Local Shipping Magnate, Dead at 73_

Finally, something useful. Sherlock read quickly through the obituary, but there were no signs of foul play in the old man's death. Survived by his wife of fifty years, Beatrice, and their three children, Paul, Tammy, and Kimberly. Beatrice. Beatrice Honeywell.

The name fit: _Honey Bee_. The age certainly fit the footprints in the warehouse. The connections to shipping certainly fit. But why would a retired old lady want to come halfway around the world to smuggle guns? It was an anomaly, just like the size of the weapons. Anomalies needed to be explained. Where was the logic? What possible motive could there be?

The chirping of his mobile pulled him out of his concentration. _Found Edward Windibanks body. Garrotted. Come take a look. Lestrade_

Pointless. He knew who was responsible for the boy's death, even if she hadn't actually been the one to pull the wire. He turned his mobile to silent so he wouldn't have any more interruptions.

At this point, he could tell Lestrade what he knew about Beatrice Honeywell. He supposed he really should tell Lestrade, it would be the legal thing to do. But then he might never find the answer to his last question. _Why?_

Mrs Hudson knocked tentatively on the door before poking her head in. "Yoo-hoo! Not interrupting anything, am I, Sherlock? Not that I mind, really. When my husband and I were first married, we found ourselves in much more compromising positions more than once, I can tell you! I just wish you'd keep such behaviour to your bedrooms, if you don't mind. Never know who might be coming in the door, you know. Oh, it's so good to see you two back together, dear. I was so afraid your row of a few weeks back was serious, what with Doctor Watson leaving so shortly after. Glad you've patched everything together again."

"So glad you approve, Mrs Hudson. Was there an actual reason for this little visit?"

"Post's just come, and I thought I'd bring it up for you. Just this once, mind; I'm not your housekeeper. Just wanted to see how you two were getting on." She deposited the small pile of envelopes on the table and left, leaving the flat once more blissfully quiet.

An envelope on top of the pile caught his attention. Pale green, expensive stationery, embossed flourishes. It was addressed simply to Mr Sherlock Holmes, no postmark. Hand-delivered, then. It was on top of the other post, so it had been slipped through the mail slot after the official post was dropped off. Mrs Hudson liked to pick up the post as soon as it arrived, so this envelope must have arrived within the last few minutes.

The writing on the front was from an expensive pen, modern, not a fountain pen. The formation of the capitals was in the style of copybooks used before 1950. Slant and t-bars indicated a female writer; uneven pressure pointed to a loss of fine motor control with advanced age. The paper was of British manufacture, but the style of the ‘S’ was more commonly taught in America. Beatrice Honeywell.

_My dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I understand that you’ve developed quite an interest in my little business endeavors. While I’m awfully glad that I can be so entertaining for you, you’ve made things extremely inconvenient for me. As civilized people, I do hope we can come to an understanding._

_If it’s convenient for you, I’d love to have you over for a little chat this morning. Perhaps we can clear up some areas that have been confusing for both of us. Since we have matters of a delicate nature to discuss, I think it would be best if you came to see me alone. Surely your good friend the doctor would rather stay at home and rest after his vacation. I’m afraid I can’t allow any more mistakes like young Edward._

_My driver will be waiting for you outside, but I’m sure you know the way._

_Sincerely,_   
_Mrs. Laurence Honeywell_

Sherlock considered his options. If he took John to Earl’s Court with him, this woman would set her henchmen on him; the threat was quite clear. No doubt she would carry out similar violence if the police arrived. The legal option, the one Lestrade would demand of him, would be to phone the police and let a squadron of snipers and Special Ops surround the house and take out Beatrice Honeywell.

However, she had just demonstrated that she knew their movements and was watching both the flat and Lestrade’s team. If Sherlock phoned the police, she would know it by their movements and would no doubt vanish. Then he would never meet this woman and get his answers.

On the other hand, it was obviously a trap. He would be stupid to go in alone. And John would be very angry with him for risking his life unnecessarily. Such things had to be taken into consideration now. After deliberating with himself for a moment, Sherlock left the card on the keyboard of John’s computer and let himself out of the flat.

Waiting at the kerb, as promised, was a long black car. Without a word, the driver opened the door and gestured inside. Every visible inch of the man’s arms and neck were covered in tattoos, advertising his skill as a pickpocket, his willingness to kill, and his affiliation with anarchists. The second knuckle of his fingers bore the distinct marks left by pulling a thin wire very tightly between his hands. Edward Windibanks’s murderer, then.

As Sherlock settled into the car, the driver pulled off in the direction of Earl’s Court.


	26. Chapter 26

As expected, they soon arrived in front of the same townhouse where he and John had been knocked off the roof all those weeks ago. Stupid of him, really, not to have seen it earlier. He blamed the irrational thought patterns caused by unrecognised hormones flooding his system at the time.

At the driver’s impatient gesturing, Sherlock got out and approached the door in the middle. This time, he noticed the bright yellow jessamine growing up a trellis at the window. The sweet perfume, familiar by now, wafted over him as he rang the bell.

The man who opened the door could have stepped straight out of a Victorian advertisement for a butler, complete with the starched collar and black tailcoat. From his height _(tall enough to have been the assailant on the rooftop)_ , he blinked impassively at the consulting detective on the doorstep before intoning, “Right this way, Mr Holmes. Mrs Honeywell is expecting you.”

Sherlock had no choice but to follow the swish of perfectly pressed coattails into the dimly lit hallway. He barely had time to register the neatly stacked boxes against the stairs before the butler was showing him into a sitting room that looked like something out of a magazine photo shoot. Elegantly upholstered furniture was arranged to form a pleasant conversation circle centred on a single, enormous armchair beneath a framed Confederate flag on the wall. Seated in the armchair quite as if it was her own personal throne was an elderly woman gripping a cane in one exquisitely manicured hand. _(Muscle atrophy in the left arm, wear on the outside of the left shoe, unevenly with the right, minor signs of drooping in the right eyelid and right corner of the mouth: survived a stroke approximately one year ago.)_

“Well, come on in, sugar,” she called in a refined drawl. “No sense dawdling on the doorstep now you’ve come all this way.” For a long moment, they stared at each other, and Sherlock had the uncomfortable sensation that this woman saw nearly as much in him as he did in her. “Have a seat, darlin’. How’d you like some tea?” Without waiting for a response, she handed him something brown and cold in a tall glass. Someone had put mint leaves on top for some reason. Sherlock sniffed it suspiciously.

Ignoring his reaction, the old woman continued, “You know, I have to confess I’m more than a little disappointed, hun. From the way everyone talks about you, I was expecting a _bit_ more of a challenge when I came to London. Still, I suppose I really ought to thank you for making things so very easy for me. I was trying so hard to be clever with the message codes and the directions I wrote into that awful song and pretending everything was the Russians, leaving all the heavy work to the Vory, and it turned out I didn’t even need to bother.”

She paused to drink from her own glass of brown liquid with apparent enjoyment, which prompted Sherlock to follow suit. He grimaced at the awful stuff. Perhaps it was poisoned after all. Who would ruin a perfectly good cup of tea by putting ice in it? And the mint was simply adding insult to injury. To hide his revulsion, he prompted the old woman, “So sorry to disappoint you, Mrs Honeywell. But I believe you have some information for me?”

“Oh, call me Bea, sugar. Everyone does. Or Honeybee if you’re feeling extra bold.” She treated him to a playful wink, and Sherlock had to fight not to roll his eyes. “But as for information, well, what kind were you looking for? Surely the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t need little old me to tell him anything!”

“There’s only one thing I can’t quite work out. _Why_ do it in the first place? There’s no logical reason for uprooting completely from South Carolina to come to a foreign country and start a dangerous and illegal operation like this. What was the point?”

She laughed at him, a rich throaty chuckle that had probably driven men crazy sixty years ago. “Oh, sugar, don’t tell me you’re still hung up on the idea of some grand scheme with a deep, dark motive! Why, bless your little heart, Sherlock, you just want everything to be too clever. It was just a lark, hun, just something to keep from being bored.

“After Laurence passed, God rest him, and the boys had taken over the business, there was nothing left for me to do in Charleston. There’s only so many church committees and quilting circles a girl can stand, you know. Book clubs get old so very quickly. I needed something a little more interesting in my golden years.”

Sherlock stared at her incredulously. She sounded far too much like Moriarty for comfort. “And they didn’t have badminton at the country club? What made you think smuggling was a good idea?”

“Oh, it was a friend of my daddy’s, really.” She waved one gnarled and manicured hand in airy dismissal. “He was a rum-runner during Prohibition, you see, and every time he came to call he told the most fascinating and exciting stories. And then, of course, I hosted so many dinner parties for business partners of Laurence, God rest him, that I picked up a fair bit about the business over the years. I figured I might as well try my hand at my own sort of rum-running.

“Well, I’m afraid you made things rather too easy for me. All those puzzles I had worked out to keep you off the scent, the codes and the red herrings, and then you didn’t even notice. Why, I might as well have been selling cupcakes at the church bake sale for all the excitement I had. So you see, sugar, no hidden plans, no devious motives.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the deceptively frail figure opposite him. He’d known this was a trap, but it was starting to seem like even more of an obvious one than he’d thought. “Then why call me here this morning? If you’ve nothing to prove and nothing to reveal, why am I here?”

Bea shook her head ruefully at him, clucking her tongue in an annoyingly condescending manner. “Bless your heart, Sherlock, but you’re quite a bit slower than I expected, given your reputation. I’m off to try my hand at some other venture. I think perhaps a warmer climate this time; the weather in London has been just awful for my rheumatism. But after what you said at breakfast this morning, I realised that you might make my departure more than a little complicated. You’re one of those little loose ends that I’ve just got to tidy up before I make my departure.”

How had this woman known what he’d discussed at breakfast? Ah, the waitress, of course. Bea Honeywell must have nearly as many spies as Mycroft. The thought of her knowing his movements so intimately was more than a little disconcerting. If she knew what he and John discussed at breakfast, was she also aware of the previous night’s activities that had led to the increased appetite? He would have to check the flat carefully for cameras when he got back. If he got back. “What does that entail, tidying up the loose ends?”

“Oh, surely I don’t have to spell it out for you, sugar. I can’t have you getting in my way at this stage of the game. Not to worry, though. Hobson is very efficient at removing obstacles for me. Ah, Hobson, darlin’, would you take Sherlock here out to the back garden?”

The butler’s sudden and silent appearance in the room was a bit startling, made all the more so by the gun held casually and comfortably in his right hand. “Are you certain the garden is the most appropriate location, madam? The neighbours might notice the noise.”

“Oh, I keep forgetting about them. Y’all live so very close together here in London. Well, what do you propose, Hobson?”

“Perhaps a quieter method of dispatch, madam? Strangulation or the like would have the advantage of being feasible within doors, without all the mess.”

“That sounds lovely, Hobson. I’ll just leave it all in your hands. Now, I just have a few more things to see to before Misha pulls the car around.” She rose with the help of her cane and turned to Sherlock, who had been edging away from the door since the appearance of the butler. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Sherlock. So sorry things have to end like this, but, well, you didn’t make things very interesting. All talk and no action, bless your little heart. Maybe I’ll come across someone a little more formidable the next place I go.”

This was turning dramatic much too quickly for Sherlock’s liking. He hadn’t counted on a woman who simply seemed not to care at all. Most of the criminal population, when finally caught, couldn’t resist the chance to boast and grandstand, to make florid speeches praising their own cleverness, all of which took time. Sherlock had counted on that time for John to find the note and work out where he’d gone. For John to bring Lestrade, possibly even Special Ops. But this… this Bea Honeywell seemed completely uninterested in proving to him how clever she’d been.

With a start, he forced his mind to consider all the logical possibilities for surviving this current encounter. The butler was armed and held his gun with deceptive carelessness, but the lines of tension down his arm told Sherlock that the man was ready to pull the trigger at a moment’s notice. Despite the man’s impassive gaze, the barrel of the pistol never wavered in its aim for Sherlock’s chest.

Options. There had to be _options_. The window to his right was fully large enough for a tall man to clamber through, but the closed curtains were of a fairly substantial fabric and might hinder his escape long enough for the butler to get off an accurate shot. Briefly, Sherlock considered rushing Hobson directly, but the man was nearly as tall as himself and considerably broader. The only objects in the room that might serve as close-range weapons were the remains of the awful tea and, though the pitcher looked heavy, it was closer to Bea than to Sherlock at the moment. While the tea was certain disgusting enough, it was neither hot enough nor caustic enough to cause more than a momentary distraction to the butler, during which time Hobson could certainly get off a clean shot. The chairs were too heavy to be easily kicked across the room, as was the settee. Where was John now, when he was really needed?

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have faced his inevitable death with little more than vague curiosity, but now… now there was John to consider. John, who would be waiting for him when he got out of the shower. John, who refused to be had cheaply. John, who was probably back at the flat wondering where he was right now. John, who… would actually be disappointed if he didn’t return. And Sherlock now wanted very much to return to John.

As these considerations and realisations flashed through his mind, Sherlock edged backward, away from the door. Hobson stepped in the room to stand beside Bea, both of them considering him as if he were nothing more than a particularly bothersome species of household pest. At the discrete clearing of the old woman’s throat, Hobson walked slowly toward Sherlock, calmly and smoothly, as one would approach a rabid animal.

And Sherlock suddenly had to work very hard to stare directly at the butler’s carefully impassive face, because he could see a familiar outline in the hall behind. He breathed once, twice, trying desperately not to give away John’s silent approach, but something of his desperate relief must have shown on his face. With a politely inquiring look on his face, Hobson just started to turn toward the danger he didn’t know he was in.

With a swift, nearly noiseless blow to the back of the head, Hobson crumpled in an ungainly heap. John’s efficient handling of the situation hadn’t even caused a spike in his respiratory processes. He checked the senseless pile of formerly elegant butler for signs of life.

“Right, there’s him sorted. Sherlock, what the bloody hell were you thinking?! I’d’ve thought you’d learned not to go haring after mad criminals on your own after what happened at the pool!” John retrieved the pistol from the butler’s limp fingers and stood in one swift motion. “You could’ve at least told me where you were going so I didn’t have to try to figure it out from that stupid letter on the keyboard.”

“The threat against you was fairly clear, John. I couldn’t risk your safety like that. Besides, I had confidence that you’d figure it out, as you did.”

“And somehow that’s supposed to make it alright that you ran off and left me again, Sherlock? I thought we were supposed to be partners now.”

The word _‘partners’_ sent a vague thrill up Sherlock’s spine for reasons he couldn’t quite put a name to. He felt an urge to grab John and hold him close, quite unlike the urge he had felt the previous evening at the crime scene. This was less of an urge to have John naked and more of an urge simply to have John. Without realising it, Sherlock stepped toward his… _partner_ , his arms reaching out quite of their own volition. The soft click of a safety catch being removed from a gun brought him up short.

“How touching, gentlemen. However, I’m afraid I really must break up this little reunion. Sherlock, honey, you’re still in my way. And Doctor Watson, I’m afraid you’ve become a nuisance as well, bless your little heart. You boys are going to make such a mess of my rug, but I suppose there’s just no help for it now.” With only minor trembling evident in her not-quite-recovered arm, she aimed her dainty, pearl-handled gun directly at Sherlock, who was edging slowly away from John as she spoke.

“John, shoot her. She can’t possibly hit both of us.”

“I can’t shoot her, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared incredulously at the man holding a pistol trained on a woman who had repeatedly demonstrated her ability to spread mayhem and murder in absolutely cold blood. “Why not? Is the gun in your hand not working?”

“She…” John paused, looking distinctly embarrassed. “She looks like my Gran.”

Bea smirked and shifted her aim to John, her hand steady enough at the close range to be in no danger of missing vital organs. The situation was entirely too familiar, and Sherlock had a sickening flash of _deja vue_ , his mind recalling quite clearly the image of John covered in dancing red lasers with a bomb strapped to his chest. Rather than distracting him, Sherlock’s possessive anger brought the only possible solution into sudden clarity. Fortunately, Bea appeared to have forgotten about Sherlock momentarily.

In one swift movement, he flung the contents of the glass still clutched in his hand at Bea and took advantage of her distraction to lunge. She jumped as icy tea splashed in her eyes, instinctively throwing her hands up to protect her face. In the small room, Sherlock was behind the old woman before she could react and move the gun away from its position pointed at John’s torso. With a swift and precise application of pressure, just at the base of her neck, Sherlock rendered Bea as unconscious as her butler.

“I would have thought, with your military training, that you wouldn’t fall subject to such irrational displays of sentimentality, John. We’re both lucky her reflexes were substantially dulled with age. The medication she must be taking to control the stroke symptoms no doubt slowed her reactions further.” The adrenaline coursing through his body left Sherlock feeling more than a bit shaky now that the immediate threat had passed. He prowled the room, checking restively for hidden dangers, but found none. “Why did you follow me here, anyway? You were meant to phone the police and send Lestrade and his team.”

John looked up from where he was checking the unconscious criminal mastermind’s pulse. “I did; they’re on their way. Sherlock, did you really just give this woman the Vulcan Neck Pinch?”

“What are you talking about? All I did was temporarily block the Brachial plexus origin, disrupting the carotid artery and some major nerves, causing loss of consciousness. Her advanced age and frailty made it easier. You still haven’t answered my question.”

John shook his head as he rose. “I always knew you were an alien. And I followed you here to make sure there’d be enough of you left to come home with me after. You’re a bit too keen on confronting murderers face to face, you know. You don’t always have to go it alone.”

“I came alone to protect you.”

“Right, because that’s worked out so well for you before. Just promise me you won’t go jumping off any buildings to protect me next, ok?”

Sherlock couldn’t form a reply – his lips were a bit busy mapping the contours of John’s mouth. John’s fingers found their way into dark curls, and he nearly whimpered at the desperation evident. Everything that had just happened, the adrenaline, the guns, the sight of John dispatching the butler with one carefully aimed blow, and the sight of John with a gun aimed at his heart again, all crashed into Sherlock’s mind with the force of a bullet. He was suddenly desperate to get his doctor home and naked, to examine John’s entire body under his magnifier to make sure everything was as it should be. And somehow, as John’s broad palms cradled his head so closely, Sherlock knew that he would never be able to let go again.


	27. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Have some John porn!

“Are you going to get that?” John was quite comfortably ensconced in his chair, finishing up his blog entry about the arrest of Bea Honeywell. Though Sherlock was quite a bit closer to the door – and whoever was rapping on the other side of it – he showed no sign of moving from where he was sat, hunched over the blueprints for what looked like a very large boat.

“Busy.”

John rolled his eyes and tried not to let out the exasperated sigh. Really, things hadn’t actually changed at all since his return from New Zealand and Sherlock’s subsequent… confession. After the police had finished mopping up the remains of Beatrice Honeywell’s organisation, Sherlock had relapsed into his usual between-case ennui. John had continued his locum work at the clinic, and he and Sarah had reached a mutual understanding of sorts. The only thing different was that now Sherlock seemed to have decided to alleviate his boredom by conducting a series of very involved experiments on John’s libido and sexual abilities. To be perfectly honest, John was starting to feel a bit like a replacement for cigarettes or murder.

Still, he supposed, this was what he should have expected from Sherlock as a … well, whatever they were. He’d referred to them as partners during the stand-off with that crazy old woman, but Sherlock had never actually put a name to how he felt. Nor did John really expect him to. If he did, he wouldn’t be Sherlock, wouldn’t be the same brilliant, infuriating, absolutely indescribable man John knew so well.

He stopped to press a kiss to the top of the curly head bent over the table, revelling in the knowledge that now he could. “You’re still a prat, you know,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind the insult.

The man in the hall flashed him an utterly charming smile as soon as the door opened, almost as quickly reverting to a look of disappointment and vague irritation. He and John stared at each other for a long moment before John broke the silence as politely as he could. “Hello. Er, is there something I can help you with?”

“I highly doubt it,” the man replied with what could reasonably be called a sneer. “I’ve been sent to find Sherlock Holmes. Is he in?” He craned his neck to peer over John’s shoulder, and he really did have to crane to get a look. They were almost exactly the same height, John realised. In fact, they were quite alike in a lot of ways. This man had hair about the colour John’s had been before it started going grey in Afghanistan. Their builds were quite similar, though the stranger in the hall was certainly more fit and probably didn’t have a bullet hole in his shoulder or a limp that came and went with the weather and stress and the fluttering of butterfly wings in South America. Even their faces were shaped a bit the same, with eyes very nearly the same colour. It was like looking into a disturbing fantasy mirror.

John was shaken from his reverie by a familiar looming presence behind him in the doorway. At the sight of Sherlock’s vaguely interested expression over John’s shoulder, the man before them brightened considerably.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes? Well, this’ll be an easy one and that’s for sure. Name's Daniel Taylor. The boss said you wanted relaxing, but he didn’t say nothing about how I was to go about doing it. And let me tell you, mate, I’ve got _loads_ of ideas at the moment.”

He took a step forward but was stopped pretty abruptly by a long, bony hand on his chest. “I don’t recall inviting you in,” Sherlock said with a look that clearly meant that this man had better have a good reason for intruding on their peaceful afternoon.

The man in their doorway paused for the briefest of moments, a look of uncertainty flitting across his eerily familiar features. “But, I thought, that is… Well, Mr Holmes assured me it was all arranged. Said I’d find you here, that you were the one put the call in. Apparently, he seems to think you’ve got some sort of _stress_ hangup going on.” From the emphasis he laid on ‘stress,’ it was clear that he meant nothing of the sort.

John glanced back at the looming figure behind him, and the expression on Sherlock’s face was truly a sight t be seen. The usually impassive detective looked as though he couldn’t quite make up his mind whether to be annoyed or disgusted, leaving him looking as if he’d just swallowed a particularly squirmy insect. Their visitor didn’t seem to notice, continuing to leer up at Sherlock in a way that made John want very much to punch him.

“You can tell your employer to keep his incredibly large nose out of my affairs,” Sherlock practically growled down at their visitor. When the man just blinked up at him, Sherlock rolled his eyes _(John could feel the eye-rolling, even behind his back)_ and continued, “Fine. In language even you can understand: tell my brother to piss off.”

He reached over John’s shoulder and slammed the door in the man’s spluttering face before he had even a chance to respond. John stared at the door for a minute, unsure whether to be concerned or amused or jealous. Amusement was rapidly winning out, but he couldn’t let Sherlock off that easily.

“So, that’s how it was, then? I was half-way around the world trying to wrap my head around the idea of you and me in a relationship while you were traipsing about London with strippers and rent boys? Honestly, I don’t know if I should be offended that you replaced me so easily or flattered that the sight of me in shorts worked you up to the point of seeking professional help.” He was chuckling when he finally turned round, but Sherlock didn’t look amused at all. In fact, the man looked downright scared.

“John, _no_ , I – it wasn’t –“ he choked out before turning away to stalk across the sitting room, dragging his hands through his hair until it stood up at frankly ridiculous angles. “This is Mycroft’s sick idea of a joke, my brother trying to prove he’s cleverer than I am. It’s how he amuses himself between bouts of running the world. It was something he said while you were… away.” He stopped suddenly and whirled to face John, gripping him rather tightly. “John, you are not – that is to say – oh, _hell_.”

That was all the warning John got before his world was once again consumed by the feeling of Sherlock kissing him. It happened with reassuring regularity recently, but this time seemed different. He’d got used to Sherlock kissing him desperately, lazily, smugly, even with something he could swear was an attempt to stave off boredom. This was none of those. In fact, it almost seemed as if Sherlock was trying to tell him something. It wasn’t too terribly surprising, he thought. For all the man was brilliant, he was complete rubbish at communicating anything emotional. But this… it was like Sherlock was trying to melt into him. Not that John was willing to complain, not with those soft lips moving so insistently against his own, with those long fingers curled around his skull as if trying to map its shape by touch alone, and certainly not with the full length of that long body moulded so completely against him, pressing in some very interesting ways.

Finally _(much too soon, really)_ , Sherlock pulled away a bit breathlessly to search for something in John’s face, his eyes darting back and forth relentlessly. “I assure you, there has never been anyone else I have found as fascinating as you. Since I do not have the necessary data, I can hardly claim that I will never find anyone else in the future; however, it seems fairly safe to conjecture from my experience thus far that the chances of that happening are vanishingly small.

“The incident with Kevin Philips in the club lavatory was simply an attempt to gather data and confirm a hypothesis; the experience was extremely unpleasant. This recent stunt by my brother was merely his misguided attempt to be clever and meddlesome. Both served only to highlight the difference between you and the rest of the dull, tedious, ordinary population at large. And now, John, if you’re quite finished with your insecurities, I think it’s time we retired to someplace with more horizontal space and less clothing.” Sherlock let his words trail off in favour of running his tongue down the length of John’s neck, demonstrating just how closely he’d been observing his partner’s reactions and responses.

John was pretty sure he’d been planning to say something else, but speaking looked like more and more of an impossibility as he was dragged firmly through the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom. It was cleaner than John had anticipated, and the bed was much larger than in his own room. Besides, Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister in Birmingham this week.

As soon as the door had shut behind him, John found himself pressed against it by the hard length of Sherlock’s increasingly desperate form. Once again, he found himself marvelling at the sheer brilliance that could come from repeated sex with the most brilliantly observational man on the planet. Every one of his erogenous zones had been deduced and was now being systematically taken advantage of by Sherlock’s delicate fingers and insistent mouth.

Those long, nimble fingers made short work of the buttons on John’s shirt, pushing it impatiently out of the way before dropping to his flies. Sherlock attacked his clothing like a man on a mission, and John was not interested in stopping him. All he could do was drop his head and try not to make obscene noises too loudly as fingers calloused from violin strings wrapped around him and started twisting.

“John,” that deep voice sounded in his ear, “You are an endless puzzle, and I don’t have nearly enough information yet to work out any sort of solution.” Sherlock paused a minute to attack that particularly sensitive spot on his neck _(his neck, for God’s sake! Who would have thought his neck could be so bloody erogenous?)_ before sliding to his knees.

With an expression that really should be illegal, Sherlock looked up at John from under his fringe but stayed otherwise perfectly still. John could feel each exhalation of hot breath on the hypersensitive skin of his cock, but there was nothing more just yet. They just stared at each other like that for what felt like ages until – still without breaking eye contact – Sherlock reached out with just the tip of his tongue and licked one long stripe down the underside of John’s cock.

When he thought about it _(which was to say when every neuron in his body wasn’t entirely focused on his cock)_ , John sometimes wondered if Sherlock had a bit of an oral fixation. That would certainly explain the smoking, and it would explain the absolute fascination he seemed to have with John’s cock as well.

Sherlock set about reducing him to a quivering puddle in short order with the same single-minded intensity that he applied to anything else he found interesting. He had no doubt memorised every one of John’s trigger points and the exact amount of pressure to use at each one. With long, slow slides of his tongue, quick, sucking movements of his lips, and very gentle nips of his teeth, Sherlock demonstrated his rather extreme learning curve.

Finally, he pulled off a bit, though he kept up the relentless assault with his hands. He kept his gaze focused firmly on the activities of his fingers, studiously avoiding meeting John’s eye. Odd, that. It wasn’t like Sherlock to display any sign of shyness in the bedroom. Twice, he opened his mouth as if to say something but hesitated and closed it again. John was about to be truly concerned when Sherlock finally spit it out.

Speaking quickly, as though afraid to lose his nerve, he said, “John, I was being completely literal when I said I don’t have enough information about you. I _need_ to learn you completely… inside and out.” He paused and tilted his head to look John in the face.

With those fingers still grasping and stroking and twisting, it took John a minute to work out what Sherlock was really asking him. When he finally realised what was on the table here, he had to focus on his breathing for a minute just to avoid losing it like a teenager at the images his mind suddenly produced for him. Of course, he’d done that before _(there was that bloke on the rugby team, and then the American medic in Afghanistan)_ , but it had been a very long time and it had never before been with Sherlock.

“Yeah, alright,” he finally managed to choke out. “Just… just go slow, yeah. It’s been a while.”

The unholy glee in Sherlock’s eyes should have been a warning – or at least a little bit of a mood killer – but John had never had what could be called normal reactions. In much less time than should have been possible, he was lying naked on the bed with an equally naked detective looming over him. At some point, clothing must have been removed, but Sherlock had kept up doing that thing with his left hand and everything else was sort of a blur. And now, that spot on the side of Sherlock’s neck looked so inviting and that long, pale torso was just begging for his hands, and John was only too happy to oblige.

He was so caught up in the noises he could force from Sherlock with the right touch of thumbs to his nipples that he didn’t at first register the sounds of the lube bottle being flicked open. When one of those long fingers drifted back behind his balls to tease ever so gently, John did in fact notice. It was a struggle at first not to flinch away when he felt probing, but then Sherlock found that spot just below his ear again and by the time John could breathe again he was being probed by someone who had definitely committed certain aspects of male anatomy to memory. Despite his earlier assurances, John still had to force down his immediate reaction to tense. Being the obnoxiously observant man that he was, Sherlock stopped moving completely, fixing John with one of his intensely penetrating stares.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” he managed to force out. “You’re fine. Just… it really has been a long time since I’ve been on this end. Go ahead; it’s fine. It’s _all_ fine.”

This earned him another breathless chuckle from Sherlock, but he didn’t start to move again until John reached up to drag him down for another kiss. Between the renewed onslaught of those impossibly soft lips and the insistent nudging against his prostate, it wasn’t long before John was once again panting and arching into Sherlock’s touch. This time, he managed to force himself to relax into a second and then a third finger, until he was afraid he’d be reduced to some truly embarrassing begging if Sherlock didn’t just get _on_ with it already.

Finally – _finally_ – the bed dipped as Sherlock rearranged himself to kneel up between his knees. Hoping to give him a hint, John let go with one hand from where he was twisting the sheet in sheer desperation and reached down to fist Sherlock’s cock. Apart from a brief stutter in the rhythm of his exploring fingers and a rather gratifying groan, Sherlock didn’t change his movements in the slightest. Stubborn, bloody bastard.

John gave up on subtlety. “Sherlock, much as I’m enjoying this, you – _ungh_ – I want you inside me – _oh god_ – and if you don’t hurry up and fuck me, it’ll be too late.” He hitched his knees up obligingly and heard Sherlock mutter something about impatient doctors before leaning back. The sight of Sherlock’s long, slim fingers spreading lube on his long, slim cock was almost enough to make John lose it right then and thank god for being a doctor and able to expedite blood tests and get his hands on antibacterial lube so as to do away with the need for condoms. Sherlock must have realised the effect his little show was having, because his fingers slowed and kept stroking himself beyond what was strictly necessary, all while smirking that damn smirk that meant he was greatly enjoying the torment he was causing.

When he’d finally had enough of driving John mad, Sherlock leaned that marble column of his torso down again. Those pale fingers wrapped around his cock and those plush lips were back to toying with his own. And there – god, finally, right there – the head of Sherlock’s cock nudging bluntly at his arse. John breathed, forced himself to relax, and … nothing. Sherlock didn’t move, even his hand slowing in its ministrations.

Confused, John opened his eyes _(when had he closed them?)_ and twisted his head up to demand an explanation, movement, something. But Sherlock was staring down at him with some indefinable emotion, something that almost looked like fear. “Alright, Sherlock?” he asked. _Please be alright,_ he thought. _Please, please, please, for the love of god, **please** don’t stop._

“Are you sure about this, John?” came the rather breathless response. “I don’t want to hurt you and, in light of your earlier reaction… And it’s been at least four years since you last engaged in such activities if my estimations are correct. If you rather we could… do an alternative activity.” But the please was still there, and John was too far gone for any ‘alternative activities.’

“Roll over, Sherlock,” he grunted. For once, Sherlock complied readily, arranging those long limbs spread out obscenely on his bed. With a brief second to admire the sight, John straddled his hips and nestled that hard cock between the cheeks of his arse, taking care not to let sharp hip bones dig too deeply into his thighs. “Just trust me, yeah?” he breathed into the shell of Sherlock’s ear before sitting up and reaching behind himself to position Sherlock right at his entrance. He took a deep breath, then forcing himself to relax, inched down slowly until he could feel every last bit seated firmly inside himself.

 _Bloody hell, it burned._ For a long minute, neither of them moved, John trying to catch his breath and Sherlock… well, it looked like Sherlock’s hard drive had momentarily short-circuited. John finally rocked his hips, just a bit, and there, _there_ was that tingle of heat that melted away the burn. From the ragged gasp Sherlock drew in, he’d felt something similar. Those silvery-blue eyes bored into him and those long lithe fingers clamped hard onto his hips. It felt like Sherlock was branding himself on every part of John’s body, inside and out.

“John, you need to … I want… _please_!” Sherlock managed to choke out when it seemed John had no intention of doing anything more than the very slight rocking of his hips, just enough to make sure neither of them would be going anywhere. Briefly, John considered drawing it out just to drive Sherlock round the bend, but the heat coiled in the pit of his stomach said otherwise. He braced his hands against that perfect chest and lifted himself up – _slowly, god, so slowly_ – before falling down onto that incredible heat again.

With a few more strokes up and down, Sherlock seemed to get a handle on the rhythm and began thrusting his hips up to meet John with increased enthusiasm. Watching Sherlock’s constant analysing stutter into incoherency as that enormous brain lost all rationality of thought was so fucking hot, and John simply had to kiss him, to catch those panting moans in his mouth, to feel the slackness of those lips against his own. It was a good thing Sherlock decided to curl himself up to meet halfway, else John would never have been able to reach.

Of course, shifting his hips to lean down like that brought Sherlock’s cock sliding directly against his prostate and _oh god that right there!_ Each little jolt of his body sent sparks shooting up his spine and flashes of fire straight to his cock. He must have gasped out something vaguely coherent, because Sherlock took the hint and repeated that particular movement, causing all remnants of rational thought to leave John’s brain entirely.

After that, it was all thrusting and jerking and _oh sweet bloody fuck_ those fingers wrapped around his cock and that long arm sliding across the sweat on his back and that low voice panting his name into his neck. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his face as he moved faster, hurtling past the point of no return… And then there was nothing but lights flashing behind his eyes and everything dissolved into heat melting through his bones, burning him from the inside out as his body decided to turn temporarily supernova.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

They lay together like that for a while, just breathing into each other’s skin and waiting for racing hearts to return to normal. John had a mouthful of Sherlock’s hair, and various fluids were swiftly drying into a sticky mess between their stomachs. Didn’t matter – he never wanted to move again. For once, Sherlock seemed content to lie still as well, his breath drifting across John’s shoulder.

Of course, it couldn’t last forever, not with the world’s only consulting detective. His fingers began drifting across John’s back, coming up to trace faint patterns over the mess of scar tissue at his shoulder. John was pretty sure he was being measured and catalogued, but it was something he was actually beginning to expect in this… whatever it was _(partnership? relationship? shagging buddies? he was fairly sure he’d never get Sherlock to put a name to it)_.

“That,” came a quiet rumble from under him. “That was good. That thing you… it was good.” A huge, gusting sigh lifting and settling John’s hand on Sherlock’s chest.

John chuckled. “So I’m your new anti-drug, then, am I? Am I really better than cocaine?”

“Mmmm…..” that line appeared between his eyebrows, the one that meant Sherlock was working something out. John went back to memorising the scent of the dark hair tickling his nose while he waited for the inevitable flash of enlightenment. Chamomile and aloe with a hint of something… formaldehyde, maybe?

“Dopamine release is triggered by orgasm, regulating serotonin levels and mimicking the chemically addictive properties of narcotics. Moreover, research indicates that physical stimulation in a monogamous relationship also triggers the release of oxytocin, reducing symptoms of addiction to other drugs, such as cocaine. Repeated exposure to oxytocin increases cells’ receptiveness to it. The one balances the other: release of dopamine is triggered by physical intimacy but oxytocin is triggered by the fact that the sex is with you, John. So long as we’re engaging in regular sexual intercourse, I see no reason why I’d ever need cocaine to clear and focus my mind.”

John took a minute to work through what Sherlock had just said, then chuckled softly. He leaned up to plant a kiss on those perfectly delectable lips. “I love you too, you impossible man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that does it for this story. Many thanks to everyone who has read, critiqued, commented, kudos-ed, and in any way, shape, or form enjoyed this. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> ~harpling
> 
> ps - With notes and hints left in the comments by the wonderful BettySwallocks, swishyclang, and kerys, I've made some changes and adjustments to the story. No major plot differences, but some fairly glaring mistakes have been removed. Many thanks to you all!


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